“… L’Homme que l’on trouvera ici, c’est celui qui s’accorde aux questions que la mort pose à la signification du monde… Et que nous retrouvons sur toute la terre.”
Chinese new year made some relatives gather together to share a greasy dinner. As usual, they talked about how fast children grow, about any marriage news from other far relatives, retirement plans, and more. The dinner was a soup with rice cake, traditionally what Korean people eat for every Chinese new year. They believe that eating this dish makes them have one more decent year. TV was on. Every word is about celebrating new year. This is the only time that city people go back to the countryside, drawing a massive exodus from the city. Luckily, there are some people who don’t have to drive in the anticipated traffic. Some people fly, others walk. It’s a pity for those who walk, because they don’t have more excuses why they couldn’t have made more during the whole year those simple steps. And I, among all those people, stay as far as two eyes on the face; living on the same surface, but never seeing one another.
The stupidity of TV shows bored those who finished the dinner, but the repeated ritual of every year to gather and dine excited them. The rice cake soup wished longevity, with its salt giving life meaning and its pepper the dramatic spice on life. Shot glasses were passed on. A poet reclaimed to be drunk, if not by alcohol at least by poem. All drunk became a poet. They murmured the words, replacing the meaning of each. Yet everyone understood what those meant. One said he was full and was going to talk a walk under moonlight to digest. Such a countryside it was, yet the moon was close enough to guide a stranger to find his way. It was yet cold, but the tall trees on the road bank turn their back against wind. In return, the stranger had to stand their terrible humming.
But the trees couldn’t protect him from the drunken car, not like they did from the sharp wind. He was on the ground, then moved to the ambulance. But he already flied to the moon by the time when his corps walked into the hospital. It was truly a pity; a sorrow. They stayed in the same universe, but never seeing each other. For that, people cried, enough to wet the corps laying on the ground.
We found this man here, who agreed with us that the death poses the signification of life and of this world. And today we found him in the dirt.
I find him across the oceans. I find him up in the air when the moon gives humidity to the night. Yet this new year, I couldn’t fly. Any of these past new years, I even couldn’t walk. But words travel fast like arrows. They know exactly where they should hit. And this time, they hit right on the 10-points-spot, which was my heart. I maybe was hoping that Zeno’s paradox is the reality, where an arrow never can travel faster than a turtle. I anticipate that there will be more arrows. I know whether I’ll be flying or not, those arrows never stop flying.
I called my cousin and he told me that he was walking on the shore. This time, here were cold winds but no cars around. All I tried was to distract him. Yet sun was already doing his best job, pushing away the night to come. Summer will come and the day will be much longer. But the moon will be there as well occupying short hours behind the clouds.
Rest in peace, my uncle.