An Encore No One Called For
AS IT TURNS OUT, our lives aren’t long enough to judge things in such emphatic terms as “fun” or “boring.” You can allow yourself to be taken by emotions that are little more than a passing breeze, but that gust of wind will soon blow away, leaving you wasting the rest of your life in want of the memory of that gale.
The phrase “the rest of your life” might conjure up images of some elderly person in physical decline, but that’s not what I mean. Age is only one factor—the aging of a person’s soul is measured in how much time has passed since that wind blew into their life. Once you’re old, everyone laps at the stagnant breezes of their own winds and says “Those were the days” or “That was the best time of my life.”
You could claim that the only meaningful times in our lives is when we’re touched by that wind. It would be easier if the end of our lives came sooner, but most people—myself included—lack the courage to actually take our own lives, so we’re left with no other way to chew through the days than to either sit there paralyzed or to idly while our lives away.
Sometimes, we find something to pretend to devote ourselves to. Sometimes, we get ourselves addicted to things. Sometimes, we get our hands on luxuries. And sometimes, we get our hands on people.
Then we die in vain.
I realize how foolish we are as creatures to cling to our own individuality so fiercely, but from the moment we’re born, we’re made to realize that we’re nothing more than another fragment of that human stupidity. Though it’s unfortunate, it’s pointless to allow our days to be consumed by such an inevitable disappointment, so we have no choice but to accept it. This world isn’t something that warrants such strong emotions.
Even when I received news of my mother’s death from my brother, as I expected, I didn’t feel particularly strongly about it. I wondered at what point my mother had been blown by that wind and pitied her, thinking that she must have spent the rest of her life chewing on that memory like gum, just like everyone else.
It had been roughly eight years since I’d last visited my birthplace. I’d set foot there again only once to collect some things left in my room when my parents decided to move, shortly after I graduated from university. I threw away most of it, taking only a few things back with me. The new house, which had been built in the same neighborhood as our original home, carried no trace of me, and I left any reason to return to my birthplace behind.
I only bothered to return, eight years later, because I thought it might be nice to at least offer a prayer for the mother who had fed, clothed, and sheltered me for the first eighteen years of my life. In my meaningless, trifling days, surely I could at least spare the time to clap my hands together for her.
I received word on Friday and attended the wake on Saturday. My father and my brother, who had remained behind—ever the dutiful son—had taken care of the arrangements and everything else, so all I had to do was show up, look like I was in mourning, and pray for my mother’s happiness in the next life. I made the necessary greetings as my father brought me around to all the relatives and neighbors for introductions.
Once the repast had ended, most of the people went home, leaving the venue quiet, with only close family lingering behind. As I stood outside during our vigil afterwards, smoking a cigarette, my brother drifted over and lit one as well.
“Sorry ’bout all this,” he said. “I know you’re pretty busy right now.”
Weird to be worrying over your little brother when your parent just died.
“I mean, it’s fine.”
I knew that wasn’t what he had followed me out there to say.
“Y’know, Mom was always worrying about you.”
“Huh.”
I hadn’t seen my mother or brother in years.
“It was always, ‘Oh, I do hope Kaya’s happy. He was such a brooding child. I hope he’s not in a funk or something.’ From her, that is, not me.”
My brother laughed at his own joke. I put on a smile as well.
“That’s our mom, huh.”
“I think she’d be relieved to see you actually able to share a smile with folks around you. You used to be so prickly all the time.”
He laughed again. I laughed back and said, “Guess you’re right,” playing the part of the cheerful younger brother as I exhaled smoke.
Listening to him talk, I supposed it was good that I had come here one last time to say a prayer for my mother like this. At the same time, I realized I would probably never come back to this place without her ever again.
When morning came, the service proper finally began. I was not particularly moved by any of the proceedings, and when I saw my mother’s body go up in smoke, reduced to nothing but ash and bones, I was only struck again with how cold and empty human existence truly was—but that was only the slightest of chills.
Once all the proceedings were over, I informed my father and brother that I would be leaving right away, as previously discussed. I couldn’t imagine what they thought of me, the second son who was abandoning all familial duty. I left the funeral home behind, the pair of them smiling at me as I went. From my mother’s perspective, it would probably be a relief just to know that the cleanup was not being left to me of all people.
I called a taxi to the parlor and told the driver to take me to the station. Typically, I was of the mind that a taxi driver shouldn’t make conversation with their passengers; today I felt much the same.