A Letter from Youe Cleaners – 30
The Path – Part 1
In truth, I had absolutely no idea back then. I never truly comprehended that the age of seventy-eight could be considered such an incredibly early, premature time to depart this earth. The profound realization of that truth only finally took hold of my mind after my own age safely crossed well past the grand threshold of seventy. As she slipped away into eternal peace, my beloved mother-in-law completely reshaped the internal boundaries of my daily routine, beautifully guiding my steps to enter an entirely brand-new path of life.
The most monumental, visible transformation manifested itself directly across the surrounding environment of my dry cleaners. The hyper-competitive discount dry cleaners that had once launched brutal price wars across our local neighborhood began to shut their doors permanently one by one. Furthermore, as the global textile market and the very fabrics of people’s everyday clothes aggressively shifted toward water-washable materials, the traditional dry cleaning shops in our area began to evaporate into the air.
During that pivotal season, the young grandson of the Vassallo family—the third-generation corporate landlord of our shopping center—proved himself to be an extraordinarily bold, absolute businessman. He launched a massive, sweeping redevelopment project to completely remodel the entire commercial complex, which had once been written off by local news as a literal ghost town. After spending nearly five to six consecutive years fiercely negotiating to secure the official government zoning permits, he began demolishing a vast section of the retail buildings to construct a grand, upscale residential villa apartment complex right on the property. According to his master architectural blueprints, the specific plot currently occupied by my dry cleaners was scheduled to be completely absorbed into a newly widened main roadway, meaning my physical shop would permanently disappear from the map.
‘Ah… I suppose my journey has finally reached its natural close right here,’ I told myself. The commercial lease agreement for our store was rapidly approaching its final expiration date anyway. Yet, just as I was calmly preparing my mind to embrace that permanent exit, an unexpected proposition arrived directly from the landlord. He went out of his way to offer me a magnificent relocation option—inviting me to transfer my business straight into a prime, highly lucrative location right next to the massive corporate grocery chain anchor store, which was designated as the crown jewel of the first remodeling phase.
It was a season filled with an endless marathon of deep calculations and complex 사색 (meditations) as I evaluated the generous terms of his offer against the canvas of my remaining years and the rapidly shifting trends of the world. Once my final resolve solidified to accept his proposition, a powerful, overwhelming sensation flooded my entire being: Though a literal mountain of operational tasks lay before my eyes to execute the move, deep within the hidden chambers of my spirit, a burning, absolute desire arose to simply pause and take a long, peaceful rest.
First and foremost, I permanently folded the affairs of “Young-keun Kim’s Members”—the collective alliance of fellow Korean dry cleaners I had passionately led for ten full consecutive years. I chose to walk away from that massive project solely because my inner spirit, far more than my physical frame, was desperately crying out for a sanctuary of complete rest.
And that was the exact genesis of how I began to walk. Years later, sitting down to share a quiet cup of tea beside my wife and my eldest brother-in-law, I offered this genuine, heartfelt confession regarding that transition: “You know… when we look at how all our old competitors vanished from the field, and how my dry cleaners was miraculously gifted the absolute finest location in the entire complex… I am firmly convinced that every bit of that blessing was entirely the doing of my late mother-in-law. Driven by her boundless maternal love, she must have whispered to the Almighty, ‘Please, look at my dear daughter… she has endured enough hard labor by her husband’s side, let her spend her remaining days in absolute peace’. I know with absolute certainty that she gathered up every single one of our heavy burdens and carried them away inside the hem of her wings of garment as she soared toward heaven.” [
Following her departure after a brave, three-year battle against the ravages of cancer, my father-in-law held fast to his routine with a rugged, steadfast strength for quite some time. Meanwhile, my own beloved mother and father, both of whom had proudly crossed well past the grand threshold of their nineties, continued their days gracefully, free from any severe or catastrophic medical crises.
Basking in that profound grace, I thoroughly loved and enjoyed the rhythm of losing myself along the walking trails during those peaceful seasons. What follows is a transparent record of the private internal diaries I carved out back then:
April 20, 2018
Walking along the neighborhood trail during my evening stroll, a sudden, sharp realization strikes my consciousness, exposing the sheer foolishness of my past actions. How frequently I had allowed my own blind, overbearing desires to completely overturn the peaceful tables of others…
May 3, 2018
The atmosphere was punishingly heavy, sweltering with a relentless humidity that felt completely unnatural for an early May day. Yet, the moment the hour arrived for my commute back home, the heavens abruptly erupted into a towering fury, beautifully filling the sky with crashing thunder and blinding sheets of lightning.
May 20, 2018
I am lost in a quiet meditation, wondering: What exactly is the hidden reason why my eyes instinctively open with such an early, sharp clarity on Sunday mornings? Perhaps it is the lingering dampness of the heavy rains that have continuously drenched our region for days on end, but my physical frame feels uniquely heavy this morning. The outer world is still wrapped in complete darkness, yet the rhythmic pattering on the roof has ceased, indicating the storm has finally spent its force. Moving strictly by old, unbroken habit, I rise from my bed and drive straight toward my shop.
After spending about two hours quietly organizing the store and prepping the machinery for the week ahead, I step back out through the front doors—and there, waiting for me near the grass, I cross paths with a magnificent sight. It is two separate duck families, proudly leading their newborn ducklings out to experience their very first glimpse of the wide world. One proud mother is accompanied by a row of six tiny babies, while the other family features four adorable ducklings. Watching their precise alignment, a sudden chuckle escapes my lips as I realize a fascinating symmetry: my late mother’s sibling circle consisted of exactly six brothers and sisters, and my own parents brought exactly four children into the world.
Has the heavy rain been holding us captive for three full days, or was it four? Though it has merely been a brief margin of time, the sudden, brilliant burst of golden afternoon sun that breaks through the clouds arrives in my chest as an extraordinarily welcome and blessed friend. Pushing the window frame wide open, the pristine, crisp songs of the birds rush inside our living room long before the breeze. Gazing out at the lush leaves framing our yard, I can see the vibrant, golden energy of summer has already taken its rightful seat upon the branches.
On an afternoon as glorious as this, there is no companion on Earth who fits the emotional tone of my soul with a more perfect precision than Henry David Thoreau. I hold an absolute, deep passion for these specific Sunday afternoons—hours when my wife is still away devouring her ministries at church, and our entire home is left in total stillness, populated by nothing but the sweet chorus of the birds and the rhythmic, quiet ticking of the clock.
“It is important to consider nature from a theological point of view, and to think of it in relation to the social institutions of men and the discoveries of science. But it is equally important to go a step further, to ignore or forget everything we think we know, and from the primal, unbiased perspective of nature itself—just as the earliest humans and all young children once did—to accept the impressions that nature bestows upon our souls exactly as they are.”
— Henry David Thoreau
June 24, 2018
The annual Chinese Festival hosted in our local town is a magnificent, grand celebration that boasts an extraordinary wealth of deep-seated heritage and years of tradition. It functions not merely as an internal gathering for our citizens of Chinese descent, but as a vibrant, open-hearted block party for every single neighborhood resident who holds a deep appreciation for the rich culinary arts, music, and tapestry of Chinese culture. Running continuously over a full weekend at this exact time every year, the festival is an annual milestone that the mainstream regional media outlets always highlight with prominent coverage.
A long, sweeping stretch of time has rolled by since the very first afternoon I went out of my way to seek out Dr. Lim—the brilliant Chinese-American scholar who spearheaded the organization of this massive festival. Our historic initial meeting took place all the way back in the year 2000. At the time, I was actively executing my heavy role as the newly elected President of the Korean-American Association, and I approached Dr. Lim with a bold, progressive blueprint: “What if we intentionally transform this event? Rather than keeping it strictly as a Chinese Festival, let us join forces to co-create a grand, unified Asian Festival!”
During that inaugural year, we successfully marched into their festival grounds, proudly showcasing the beautiful heritage of traditional Korean dance, master calligraphy demonstrations, thunderous Taekwondo exhibitions, and a vast spread of delicious Korean food. I had aggressively extended identical invitations to the local Japanese-American and Indian-American leadership circles as well, but their initial responses had returned with a rather lukewarm and disappointing note.
As the currents of time rolled on, the event naturally maintained its historic title as the Chinese Festival; yet, untiringly, for nearly two consecutive decades, a dedicated team representing the proud spirit of Korea has consistently participated in the festivities year after year. Except, it has long ceased to be under the flag of the Korean-American Association; instead, the mantle was picked up and carried entirely under the name of our weekend Korean Heritage School. And the unyielding force that single-handedly sustained that beautiful participation was the fierce, silent unbroken tenacity of my beloved wife.
Through those long years of her quiet labor, the landscape has beautifully evolved; today, with every approaching autumn, our community proudly hosts our very own independent Korean Festival to celebrate the Chuseok harvest season—creating a grand celebration whose scale and cultural impact confidently stand neck-and-neck with the Chinese Festival. It runs under the official flag of the Korean-American Association now, yet its core operational engine remains anchored entirely within the volunteer ranks of the Korean School.
Whenever I stand on the fringes to watch the younger generations of our post-immigration youth devoting their weekends and whole hearts to serve the community through these organizations, my spirit is simultaneously filled with an immense, absolute pride and a heavy, quiet weight of deep heartache. For I know that my own intense pride is relentlessly accompanied by a mountain of profound, hidden shame.
At any rate, during today’s grand festival, my wife stepped onto the stage to dance.
The cherished circle of her lifelong friends, who tirelessly devote their free days to teaching the intricate arts of the traditional Samulnori percussion to the next generation, open-heartedly grabbed their drumsticks and stepped forward to play beside her.
Reuniting with Dr. Lim after a long separation, he looked into our faces and delivered a warm, laughing compliment, claiming that both my wife and I looked as though we hadn’t changed a single shred since our very first meeting decades ago; yet, the naked truth of our bodies is that both he and our couple have become profoundly frail and aged.
Nevertheless, as I gaze out at the local youth representing both our Chinese and Korean heritages today, I find that the next generation is absolutely vibrant, bursting with a brilliant, unstoppable life.
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