heavy and light and the years after

I paced up and down the kitchen floor after I finished my cereal. Planted my steps on the lines between the tiles. Kept the radio off. This morning I’m going to a funeral.

Then I’m going to finish a card I’m writing to a friend who invited me to his wedding in New Zealand. Then I’ll send that card along with the other seven New Year cards, all of them going to Japan. Then I’m going to Starbucks to buy a gift card for my hairdresser. Then I have my one o-clock haircut appointment. Then I’ll come home and revise my story after having read the chapters on “Gesture” and “Details” in Francine Prose’s book. Then I have to sleep early to wake at 4am next morning to drive my brother to the airport. Then I have to find a coffee shop to hang until I meet my friends in Scarborough for morning dimsum.

Before all this, I’m going to a funeral.

There was nowhere to park, so I parked at the McDonald’s across the street. Then I had to cross the street. I looked both ways.

I didn’t know how Jeffrey died. I was notified through email.

I only met him on a few occasions, but he left a bright impression on me, something simple in his carefree gestures that made me think he’s a very good kid.

Jeffrey was 16 years old.

The room was full. People had to stand outside the room. I squeezed my way in just enough to see the forehead of the pastor who was speaking.

He said: We cannot control our own deaths. But are we to fear life because of this?

Then he said: Sometimes it makes us remember that we should spend more time with our parents and not just activities that we’re interested in.

Jeffrey’s teacher said: It’s unnatural for parents to survive their own son. Jeffrey used to skip Physics class a lot and he loved to stop by the Drama room to say hi. On the Thursday before the holidays, Jeffrey organized a movie night showing “Nightmare Before Christmas” to raise funds for charity. It turned out people weren’t interested, and he had to cancel it himself. He apologized to his teacher for having wasted his time.

His martial arts coach went up said something about the possibility of accidents. He said Jeffrey taught him a lot.

Then we lined up to pay our respect. I saw Vivian there and I said I was shocked and didn’t know what happened to Jeffrey. Vivian said something about how Jeffrey’s suddenly heart failed him. I didn’t hear exactly what she said because she was holding back tears.

I bowed to him.

“Jeffrey will remember all of you,” his father kept repeating to the people who went up to pay respect. In another place he would be a sharp businessman, owner of a new SUV, head of a family. Today, his face was glossed by tears.

I told him I didn’t know Jeffrey for a long time but he gave me a very positive impression. I told him Jeffrey was a good boy.

Somewhere in his mind, maybe constantly, constantly, he’d be thinking of last week, the time before his son died, and that time gap will stretch and stretch. He’d be thinking of the last Friday he had when his son was alive and talking about stuff. Then there might be thoughts that began with “this is the first time I do this and this since I lost my son,” and as more and more of these thoughts accumulate, more and more places become places where “I’ve done this and this even after I lost my son,” and only then would he be adjusted to the new reality, if ever. I supposed it’s like that. A deep vertical line between before and after.

People waited in the hallway. The casket about to be delivered.

I sat in the atrium by myself.

Then I left.

I went to a Japanese café and had a bowl of kitsune soba and a can of hot UCC coffee. The radio behind the counter was playing “Road” by The Torabiru.

Sitting in places Japanese always gives me a sense of insatiable nostalgia. This time ten years ago I was studying in Japan. I was in love with a girl. In the ten years after I returned, I finished high school, finished university, found interesting jobs, discovered a joy in teaching, a passion in writing. It’s been a dwindling experience, and I’m only now realizing that I’m coming out of this dwindling state of mind. In my recent letters to my friends, I kept telling them, in the months since this past summer, I’ve been feeling an incredible sense of potential about my life.

I finished writing to my friend in New Zealand. He is getting married in a month. I told him I’ll soon save enough money to go there and see his kids.

My friend and I studied in Japan together ten years ago. We thanked each other for staying in touch all these years. That year in Japan, I was 17.