Prologue
On my way home after finishing work early, I stepped into a nearby restaurant for a quick bite. Inside, the place was entirely transformed with Easter decorations, looking just like a playground for children. Looking around the tables, most of the guests were elderly couples who had come with their preschool-aged grandchildren. Some tables had grandfathers with their grandkids, and others had grandmothers. The only table occupied by just a couple, with no children in sight, was ours. “We’ll be able to bring our own grandchild here next year, won’t we?” my wife asked herself, nodding and smiling.
A moment later, she asked me, “Oh dear, what was that man’s name again? It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t recall it. Look behind you, the second table over. He used to be a customer at our shop. “Even though I could only see his back—a man with graying hair and a thick, white beard sitting with his grandson and granddaughter—I knew exactly who he was. Still, his name escaped me as well. “Let’s see… I know it starts with a W…” I murmured.
“That’s right! It’s Andrew,” my wife chimed in. “I can’t remember his last name, though.” As expected, my wife’s memory is much better than mine. Andrew was a long-time regular customer of ours. A few years ago, he moved away from the neighborhood near my shop to an area closer to our home. At the time, he stopped by to say goodbye, saying, “I think I’ll have to use a dry cleaners closer to my new house. Thank you so much for everything over the years.”
Since my wife and I finished our meal first, we walked over to his table to say hello. “Andrew! Oh my, it’s been such a long time,” we said. “Oh, Mr. Kim! Have you retired?” he asked. “No, I’ve just cut back on my hours a bit. I’m on my way home after finishing up my morning work,” I replied. Then came his next question: “Are you still sending out those Sunday morning email letters?” To which I gave a short reply: “Well, I feel like I’m getting old now…”
Andrew then turned to his grandchildren, who looked to be about five or six years old, and said, “Kids, this is a friend of your grandfather’s. He is someone who writes letters that bring comfort and peace to people.”
As we walked out the restaurant doors, my wife suddenly exclaimed, “Ah, I remember now! Mr. Wheble!” I felt deeply grateful for him. His words—calling me “someone who writes letters”—brought back all the years I had lived through, along with the precious memories of the people who remained in those times.
I realized that today, I am still a man who writes letters from a dry cleaners. My granddaughter is now two and a half years old, just beginning to prattle away. Whenever my son and daughter-in-law proudly show us how she babbles in Korean, I don’t say a word; I just let a bright, radiant smile fill my face.
It has already been ten years since my son showed up with a dark-skinned girl and announced their marriage. That entire year, I suffered deeply in secret. Yet, even during that painful year, I never missed a single Sunday morning. I kept sending out those email letters to our shop customers, filling them with borrowed grace, warmth, and smiles—though I felt foolishly inadequate inside. That is how my life has flowed through time.
And today, inside this dry cleaners, I continue to quietly gather and organize those precious moments of my life.
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