boyhood two

The second time woohyeon met death, he was thirteen. on the precipice of teenagehood and childhood. teetering there like a balancing bird on a shaky forefinger. He never did have great hand eye coordination. down the bird went, plummeting into a graveyard of shredded tires and wet metal.

and with it, went woohyeon's mother.

he was never sure why his mother was out that day, was she running errands? Did work tug her away from the safety of their home? Was she trying to beat the worst of the storm by rushing on her way? Death never answered his questions though, it followed him like a shadow.

It was real, but it wasn't. Sometimes death would hide and other times it'd tower over woohyeon like a tidal wave, destruction and ruin, hand in hand. Death was never kind, woohyeon figured as he was explained that he was now an orphan.

No father. No grandmother. No mother. badum. Badum. Badum. it was just him. and his shadow of sorrow, the same shadow he'd hide in. his face tucked into the crooks of his arms as death wound around him, wrapping around him like grandma's blanket, like his mother's arms.

Everything was left to him. Boyhood abandoned, and somehow, it was up to him on how they should celebrate his mother's life. How to celebrate her death without party hats and streamers, without cake and candles. Coldness seeped in where warmth once was, boney fingers wrapped around the tendrils of his heart.

Love wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Loving meant separation, loving meant being alone. Love meant being abandoned. Love meant death. Woohyeon wondered what was better. A loveless death, or a deathless love.

Woohyeon idealized, romanticized his own death. Would he fade away from who and what he was like his grandmother? Would he cease to exist in a car crash of tangled steel and storm clouds?

How would death greet him, personally?

His mother was barely buried before he was being packed away onto a plane to the united states, to live with an aunt and uncle who never had children of their own, but had the space, the time, the resources. Death stowed away in the overhead compartment, and slipped into woohyeon's backpack upon the descent.

America wasn't like it was on the tv screen, or glorified in magazines and websites. It was terrifying. Woohyeon, was terrified. But death was there, holding his hands and stroking the nape of his neck.

Death to everything he knew, or everything he thought he knew. Death to a homeland he no longer paid his respects in. Death to an empty house, but filled plots in a mausoleum. Two filled, but a third left free. A third for woohyeon when he rejoined them and met them again. Death was tempting, cunning in its promise to reunite their trio.

Death was forgoing his native tongue to fit in. Death was being called honey by school yard bullies who's tongues couldn't form around the syllables of his name. Like his name was too large for their foreign mouths.

oh honey, they'd sing, pulling at the corner of their eyes, making them slanted. mocking his features, his mother's features. his hands would curl into fists, and he'd pray to a god he wasn't sure was around, for death to visit them in the same fashion he'd been visited.

His uncle would tilt his chin up, tell him to remain strong, to keep pushing on. His aunt would try to soothe her hand over his back and shoulders, but it wasn't the same. Their hearts didn't beat like his, they didn't synch like his grandmother and his mother's had. badum, badum, badum.

Death was walking home with a limp, a busted lip and a bruised jaw. It was two swear fingers he'd thrown before the first punch ever landed. Death was having to bow his head at the others parents and recite what his uncle had told him to.

i'm sorry for the trouble i've caused. i'm sorry for resorting to violence instead of seeking out an adult to help handle a situation i was out of depth on.

what he really meant was, i'm sorry your sons are racists. i'm sorry they make fun of me for being different and no matter how much i asked them to stop, they wouldn't. i'm sorry that after being called honey boy and hong kong ching chong, for the millionth time, i couldn't stop myself. i didn't think, i only reacted. i'm not sorry.

I hope death comes for you and your sons before they come for anyone else.

Death to his boyhood was nursing his wounds alone in a black room, humming a lullaby he was already forgetting. It was staring at a smog filled sky and not recognizing any constellations. It was realizing maybe, just maybe, it would be better for all if he joined his grandma and mother.

Afterall, death was becoming comfortable. Death was his only friend.