My grandpa passed away during my second year of college. And before moving to Korea at the age of 19, I spent every year of my life with him.
But if you were to ask me what kind of person he was — his interests, his favorite song, the ways he viewed the world, I would hesitate to form an answer. Living through the Korean War, falling in love, forming a family, I’m sure there were endless stories to tell over and over again.
I never cared to ask him about himself though.
To me, he existed as a man — the father of my mother who just drank his days away.
But now I wonder what kept him coming back to those drinks everyday. How he felt about living in a foreign country where everywhere you go the words you hear and see are indistinguishable by your mind.
I struggled to cry at the time of his sudden death. But I cry as I mature and I start to see the pain of his. I cry as I am unable to live to tell the joyous moments of his.
