The Lone Saint (Copy)

The saint has passed.

I’ve held a sacred and reserved part in my heart for you.

Upon receiving the text,

the petals of my heart felt like they were violently torn away

and crumpled brown,

but yet it continues to beat.

My hero.

My loyal grandfather figure.

The reason I am proud to be Korean.

The person I want to make proud. 

The first day I was shocked.

I continued my day in dismissal.

Now,

a tear, like sap,

caresses my swollen eye,

my roujed cheek,

and my frowned lips.

I think about your ominous face:

the cascade of wrinkles, indented by your tenacity and grit.

I think about your scent:

the pungent smell of mothballs that’d strike my nose.

I think about how you whisked me to the hospital when I was ill,

without a pause of hesitation,

although I am not your granddaughter.

I think about how you bought me a hanbok--

my first memento of nationalistic pride.

I think about how I can’t hug you.

Another tear.

Both eyes well and give in.

I wish to have you back

but try to empathize with your pain.

I wish I could fly to Korea to say goodbye,

and unlike every last hug,

hold you firmer,

tell you how much I love you,

and never let you go.