musicbox

no discretion necessary

I remember one time, we clasped hands. You, me and mom. I was three and literally the center of the world, because the two of you were my everything. I remember being swung up, down, back and forth. Flanked by the two of you like trees—as grounding as roots, supportive as branches, protective as shade. I think I felt more simple joy and pure security than I ever remember experiencing.

I remember shaking under the sheets, drenched in cold sweat and terror, wishing away your unrelenting wrath for the night.

I remember when you dropped by the nursery that oppa and I stayed at when mom went to work. You pulled me aside and replaced my undershirt, worn and holey after too much consecutive use, with a crisp, flowery one. I hadn’t seen you in what felt like months. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. I was surprised. I felt…remembered. Cared for. I think. But I tried my best to look solemn. I can’t remember why.

I remember being forced to kiss your scratchy cheek goodbye, supposedly for good. It was painful and you reeked of your poison. Disappointed and resentful at five years old, I wasn’t sorry at all.

I remember waiting for you at JFK a year later, so expectant. With open arms and complete abandon. And I can’t remember why, but I was so excited. “My dad is coming home!” I had announced to the entirety of my first grade class that day.

I remember you bought me a craypa set from Korea because I asked you to. I drew you a rabbit with those craypas because rabbits were what I drew best. I practiced and I practiced, and I drew you the best rabbit my six-year-old self could muster and to my earnest pride, you told me that you liked it.

I remember you didn’t believe mom when she told you I was smart, so you gave me problems. Long division problems. I got them wrong and I felt sorry.

I remember so well the day you finally started beating me again. I remember being confused and shocked at the first kick.

Then I remembered the five years past, and wondered how I could be surprised at all at the inevitable.

You had to leave again.

This time, I refused to kiss you.

But I stole the flashlight you used as a keychain before you left. I told myself it was because I liked flashlights—they were useful—but I never used it. And even after the battery died of age, I kept it. I kept it in the same drawer where I keep the craypas I stopped using after you left. I kept it in the same drawer where I keep the undershirt that I hoarded. I took it off when I got home from nursery that day when I was four and put on the old, holey one. Even as a four year old, I tried to preserve what you gave me. And keep it safe. Because you never gave me much, but when you did, it meant something.

I kept them just like these memories I’ve always guarded. Because besides the terrible horror stories of you that I’ve accumulated over the years, they are really all I have of you. So I protect them. I keep them safe and look at them sometimes, opening the drawer I have for them tucked safely in a corner of my memory. I treasure them all. I try not to peek too much though and keep them stowed away, because I couldn’t risk them ever being tampered with. Not by mom and her stories. Not even by me, lest I colored or manipulated them. Complicating the simple memories of a child.

I keep them like the anger, hate, fear, hurt, mistrust, and insecurity that I learned to bound tightly around my heart. At nights, I used to wrap my arms tightly across my chest to stifle my sobbing. I clung to every negative emotion that I could. I held on tightly and reminded myself to guard them closely to my chest every night because they were all I had of you. I savored every tear, whether it be bitter or self-deprecating. That was our quality time. That was all you ever gave me and that was all you were to me. Because you were never there, and without my anger, you ceased to be my father. You were just another man. And I couldn’t let go.

Where ever you are, dad, I just wanted to tell you that I love you. And I realized I’ve always loved you. And I sure as HELL can’t speak for mom or oppa, and I won’t even entertain the thought of forgiving what you’ve done to them, but for all you’ve done to me, I forgive you.

And I don’t know which has screwed me up more—your absence or your presence.

And I feel like a part of my heart is breaking because I’m letting a part of the very little I’ve already had of you go.

And my heart is still crusted over with layers of hurt, but I feel it now: thumping against my chest, beating fresh, unrestrained and alive.

For the first time in my life, I forgive you.

Not, say-the-magic-words, forget-the-past, let-bygones-be-bygones kind of forgiveness.

But I forgive you, like if you were here with me right now, I would wrap my arms to hug your alcohol stained flesh and tip-toe to kiss your thorny cheek knowing you might hit me again. Knowing you might leave me again.

Because I love you. And there’s no discretion necessary, because there is just love here. Just a daughter loving her father.

Because I love you. Always have, and always will.

Jan

2012

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