Heavy Migrations

Geese on a frozen pond

There was no sunset in sight that day, but sitting inside and staring at a wall was no longer an option. I needed to move.

I forgot how the cold here slices into your skin, swift and unforgiving. As soon as I left the garage, I turned back to change into warmer sweatpants and my little brother’s vest. When did he grow up?

By the time I saw the geese, my throat burned. I cry often, but I rarely sob. Not like this. When a child throws a tantrum, apparently one way to end it is by mirroring their behavior — wail with them. Shock them into self-awareness. The geese’s shrill honking had a similar effect on me. I am not a wild bird. I am enjoying a nice walk. I am in the suburbs. This is not 42nd Street, hours after midnight. How dare I treat it that way.

As I approached the pond, I realized that what I thought was calm water was really a thin sheet of ice, and the geese took reluctant steps across it. This only accounted for half the pond, while the water nearest the railing rippled on. It looked like a botched cinemagraph, as if the designer decided to animate a section of the image but forgot the rest had to stay perfectly still.

I walked around the park for another hour. Crossing a bridge, I spotted two pairs of bonded ducks drifting in circles. Here, when I cried, they didn’t make a sound.

A MATTER OF TIME

My grandpa passed a little before 4 am. Eighteen hours earlier, my brothers and I said our goodbyes. Draped in protective blue plastic, we bent over his bed, touched his hair, his hand. My mom placed a cold towel on his head because he couldn’t open his eyes. We said what we could. We hoped he heard us.

After we left, the doctors removed his endotracheal tube. I took a nap and dreamt he was gone. Not yet. We drove back to the hospital and brought Portillo’s to eat with my parents, uncle, and grandma in the basement cafeteria. They stayed behind. My brothers and I went back home. I took a long walk. I went to sleep and dreamt he was gone again.

The night before we visited him in the ICU, after a game of rock-paper-scissors to determine our sleeping arrangements, I had won the mattress on the floor in my dad’s office. The door to his office doesn’t close easily; you need to push it firmly into its frame. After my second dream, around 4:30 am, I heard my parents come home. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, so I’d left the door open, which one of them tried to shut three separate times.

A few hours later, when I awoke fully, I checked my messages. I lay there for a while. My mom walked in and hugged me. We stayed there, together on the ground.

Crying in Joong Boo

At the food court, my grandma told me to put my coat back on because it was too cold for a T-shirt. Another grandma at a neighboring table said the same thing to her grandson. My mom echoed the sentiment when I joined her in line. Bundle up. Eat more. The maeuntang is good. Try some.

Every time I visit my family, I need to go to Joong Boo — specifically to get the kimchi mandu as big as my hand. A dumpling is a gift, a perfect food. When my grandparents lived with my family on our farm, after school my grandma would steam a dozen pork dumplings for me, too hot for my tongue but not for my impatience. I would inhale the whole plate in seconds, every day. It never got old. Comfort, food, home. It’s all the same. One cannot exist without the others.

With every trip back to Chicago last year, both my maternal and paternal grandfathers’ health continued to decline, and the inevitable drew nearer. On Sunday, my dad video called to let us know our mom’s father was in the ICU. This had happened before, but my grandpa has always been strong — stronger than most. Sickness would ravage his body for years, but his spirit never surrendered. This time seemed different. This time we needed to be ready to head home. After the call, I went to a dance showcase and marveled at the performers’ vitality. The joy in their movement, the lightness of their feet. I started to feel myself floating away. The next day I alternated between staring at my phone and my ceiling until five in the morning. The following evening, my roommates and I hosted a Single’s Inferno watch party. Sometimes any distraction is a good one. But during the last few minutes of the finale, I saw a notification from my dad light up my phone. Look up some flights. One way is fine for now.

The world went gray.

I don’t know if preparing for the end made me more ready for it — to grieve those who are still alive. To resist, and to fail.

Butterfly Ave

On the way back home from my walk, I made several wrong turns. All roads, parking lots, and lamp posts look the same in the suburbs, especially at night. Whoever happened to peer out from their living room window must have been startled to see a shadow lumbering down their street, struggling to find a sidewalk, not really caring if this were the wrong way. Still, I needed to move.

At the beginning of my walk, I’d let Spotify choose my music (soft, somber love songs). This probably wasn’t the smartest decision. It hit me all at once — I realized my grandpa would never see me marry. For so long, marriage hadn’t been a priority. I could not see myself having kids, and I could not imagine spending my life, happily, in love, with someone who felt the same way. But what did that matter, now, in the end? As the oldest grandchild on both sides of the family, wandering around the wrong neighborhood, I began to believe this might be my biggest failure.

This — spiraling — is what I often do on my walks. Especially this week. Every step led me to another unwarranted thought about what I could have done differently, about who else I could have become. Maybe we wouldn’t have had to say goodbye under these circumstances. Maybe we wouldn’t have had to say goodbye at all.

When I finally turned a corner and found myself on a sidewalk, I looked up to see the street sign: Butterfly Ave. And at that exact moment, a song I’d never heard before began to play: “Butterfly” by Brandon Banks. Hey. Heavy migrations. Maybe you’ll be fine, get what you’re looking for soon.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Good one, universe. And thank you, Grandpa.