Two Angels

Written by Shinbi Lee from Orange County School of the Arts in California, YS

It always rains when we visit the columbarium of our grandparents’ ashes. The structure is a walk down from a clean-paved road surrounded by evergreen forest; our car looks like it shouldn’t be parked in the middle of this empty road. But I guess it doesn’t really matter because no one is here but us and the ashes, ashes, ashes. 

We’ve only been here twice, once when we were much younger, when no one really understood the cruelty of the world, and now, in a time when my parents’ hair has begun to gray, and my older sister will soon go off to college – and I, I am still confused. 

The rain is descending in slow, heavy drops. Even the sky seems to know something as it darkens with silent sobs. My mom asks my sister and me if we remember this place, and we both say yes with a tentative nod, a slight eyebrow raise. I’m not sure how much my sister recalls about the funeral, but I have one memory. Something clear, yet also intangible, like when you’re unsure if something you are remembering so vividly only happened in a dream. 

The memory begins with a gray sky, humid but with irregular periods of rain. I had been standing in front of the marble niche where my grandpa and grandma’s ashes were stored beside each other. A Korean lady, someone in charge of the proceedings, had been standing with a wooden spoon and some water, and I remember the way she threw the water onto the smooth surface of the niche. I never understood why she was doing it. But then again, everything that happened during the funeral was part of a culture I would never get to learn. She also said, in Korean, “the children should do it too.” I believe that my sister went first, using the spoon to splash water, and then I was up next. I had been scared, unsure of what to do, afraid that I would ruin the funeral with one action. The weight of the spoon in my hand was heavier than I had expected, but I mimicked what everyone else had done. On my first attempt, my height stopped me. No matter how hard I stretched my arm, the water wouldn't reach the spot it needed to. I think the lady might’ve guided my arm in an effort to help, but eventually took the spoon back from me. I don’t remember much after that. Afterwards, my little child brain couldn’t shake its worries. I was always plagued with the wonder if it was disrespectful to splash water on the storage places of other people’s ashes. If I should’ve tried a little harder –  gotten on the very edge of my tiptoes – to reach the top. 

Right now, my family stands in a semi-circle around that same place. The rain spatters onto the stone ground beneath our sneakers. I join them, and my dad begins to speak. His eyes are focused on the top right of the marble wall in front of us, and his first words stop the rain.

My dad doesn’t call his parents 아빠 (dad) and 엄마 (mom) like I call mine. He calls them 아버지(father) and 어머니 (mother), which is more formal in Korea. Tears immediately begin to form when my dad says these terms; these terms I have never used in my life. I'm not sure why I am crying. Maybe I am just an empathetic person, the type of person to cry just because someone else is sad. Maybe I am just sensitive to the atmosphere. But I don’t think that’s the exact reason why. No, I am not crying because I miss my grandparents. I wish I could say I do; I do miss them, but how can you miss a person whose face you don’t really know? I would never talk about this to my parents, because it would sound ungrateful. More tears pool in my eyes as my dad asks his parents to validate my sister's achievements and tells them I need to go to college too. He tells them to please keep looking after us from above. I glance at my mom, whose eyes have reddened. Droplets of rain continue to land heavily on our skin, cold dissolving into warmth.

I realize it then, as we lower our heads in prayer. For a second, I imagine my grandparents, not their faces but their shadows looming over mine. I am crying not for them, but for my father and maybe even my mother. I am crying because in my mind I know I will someday be a mother too, maybe stand in the place where my father’s sneakers are now glued in place. 

In that moment of isolation, this pure emotion that must be from the presence of the spirits, I begin to regret. I recall all the times I thoughtlessly talked back to my parents, the times I didn’t say “I love you” loud enough, all the times they got frustrated with me and said they were disappointed that they didn’t raise me to be this way. I watched something on the news once where a 70-year-old Korean lady said that she was more scared of missing out on the sport, soccer, she loved so much than getting injured. It’s like the old things that you’ve left behind that you suddenly remember; it’s the same way for me with gymnastics. I used to know so many skills. When I feel a spontaneous urge to try them today, I can’t perform them without feeling an unwelcome pull in my back or strain in my arms. And this makes me feel bad for every time I’ve laughed at my dad trying to exercise, because what if he was just trying to see if he still could?

My family sits for a moment at one of the tables. I survey the forest, the marble, the rows and rows of people in their final form. I wonder how many people have visited over the decades, carrying the weight of more than just marble walls. 

When we walk out, I realize we’re not really alone after all because there are two sculpted angels praying atop tall white columns, and I think they are staring down at me. I think they are trying to whisper something from a place so high I cannot even distinguish their faces no matter how hard I crane my neck. 

I slowly climb back into the car, letting a few stray raindrops find refuge on my seat before slamming the door shut. My dad starts the engine and drives away without a word. My mom closes her eyes. My sister becomes preoccupied with her phone. I look out the window, where the two angels, still looking down, disappear from view. 

Once again, we are leaving the columbarium behind us. Perhaps the next time I return, I will understand.

I hope I don’t.