Please Look After Mom - Kyung-Sook Shin [50]
“You must be sleeping.” Your wife heaved a deep sigh. “Please don’t live longer than me.”
You remained quiet.
“I have your shroud all prepared. It’s in that yin-yang box on top of the wardrobe. Mine is in there, too. If I go first, don’t panic, take that down first. I splurged a little. I got them in the best hemp. They said they planted the hemp themselves and wove the fabric out of it. You will be amazed when you see it—it’s beautiful,” your wife murmured as if she were casting a spell, even though she didn’t know if you were listening.
“When Tamyang Aunt passed away a while ago, her husband was bathed in tears. He said that before Tamyang Aunt died she made him promise he wouldn’t get an expensive shroud for her. She told him that she had ironed her wedding hanbok and asked him to put that on her when he sent her off to the next world. She said she was sorry that she was going first, without even seeing their daughter get married, and that he shouldn’t spend money on her. Tamyang Uncle was leaning on me when he told me that, and he cried so much that my clothes got completely wet. He said that all he did was to make her work hard. That it was wrong of her to die, now that they were a bit more comfortable, and that she’d made him promise he wouldn’t buy her a nice outfit even at her death. I don’t want to do that. I want to go wearing nice clothes. Do you want to see them?”
When you didn’t move, your wife sighed deeply again.
“You should go before me. I think that’s for the best. They say that although there’s an order to when people come into this world, there isn’t one when you leave, but we should go in the order we came. Since you’re three years older than me, you should leave three years earlier. If you don’t like that, you can go three days earlier. I can just live here, and if I really can’t live by myself, I can go to Hyong-chol’s and be useful—peel garlic and clean—but what would you do? You don’t know how to do anything. Someone has waited on you all your life. I can just see it. Nobody likes a smelly, silent old man taking up space. We are now burdens to the children, who have no use for us. People say you can tell from the outside a house that has an old person living in it. They say it smells. A woman can somehow take care of herself and live, but a man becomes pathetic if he lives alone. Even if you want to live longer, at least don’t live longer than me. I’ll give you a good burial and follow you there—I can do that.”
You climb on a chair to take down the box from the top of the wardrobe. Actually, there are two boxes. From its size, it looks like the box in front is yours and the one behind is your wife’s. They are much larger than they looked when you were lying down. She said that she hadn’t seen such beautiful fabric in her life, that she’d gone far to get it. You open the box, and there are hemp cloths, mourning clothes, wrapped in blindingly white cotton. You undo each knot. The hemp to cover the mattress, hemp to cover the blanket, hemp to wrap the feet, hemp to wrap the hands, all inside, in order. You said you’d bury me first and then go.… You blink and gaze at the pouches that would wrap around your and your wife’s fingers and toes after your deaths.
Two girls run in through the side gate toward you, calling you, “Grandpa!” Tae-sop’s children, who live near the creek. They soon wander away from you, looking around the house. They must be looking for your wife. Tae-sop, who is running a Chinese restaurant in Taejon, left his two children with his elderly mother, who was so old she could barely take care of herself, and never showed his face. Perhaps he isn’t doing too well. Your wife always clucked her tongue when she saw the children, saying, “Even if Tae-sop is like that, what kind of person