A Farewell Carried by the Wind (작별을 품은 바람)

A Farewell Carried by the Wind

 

When it’s time to return to the States after visiting Korea, the day of departure always feels the same. The air is windy, the world quiet and gray — or at least, that's how it feels to me.

As I rushed to finish packing, it felt like I was leaving a piece of my heart behind in the stillness of the morning. My mom moved back and forth, finding little things to give me for the trip, while my dad, already fully dressed, kept asking what time I needed to leave.
We all knew I was leaving today. Without saying much, we shared our sadness through our eyes.

I planned to catch the 10:50 airport limousine bus from the nearby stop, and told my parents I would leave home about 15 minutes before.
But my dad, who is 88, followed his own way, just as he always has. At 10:00 sharp, he left early, carrying one of my suitcases. I had hoped to share a proper goodbye — a hug, a few warm words, maybe an apology for not being around more — but before I could even gather my thoughts, he was gone.
I hurriedly said goodbye to my mom, but even if I’d had hours, it wouldn’t have felt like enough. The words simply weren’t big enough for the love I wanted to express.

As I grew older, my respect for my father only deepened.
Born into poverty, the third of six children and second son, he was fiercely consistent from an early age. Even during the Korean War, he never missed a day of school. He had a remarkable memory, once memorizing 100 poems for a school contest.
Yet life forced him to abandon his dreams of becoming a pharmacist. He joined the army instead, driven by necessity. His early military experiences were harsh, but he persevered, eventually becoming an officer.
He served in the Vietnam War, worked at South Korea’s army headquarters, and played a crucial role in building the modern army.
After 32 years in service, he continued working another 30 years in private companies. Even now, he keeps learning — earning certificates, even a cooking license.
He was the kind of man who could solve any problem placed before him.

After saying goodbye to my mom, I grabbed my remaining bags and hurried toward the bus stop — faster than I needed to, since the bus wouldn’t come for another 45 minutes.
Halfway there, I saw my father walking toward me.
He had already dropped the suitcase off at the stop and worriedly told me a bus had just passed.
I explained that I had planned to take the next one — that I wanted to spend a little more time with him and Mom at home — but I wasn’t sure if my words made any sense to him.

The wind was strong. Maybe it wasn’t just the wind inside my heart after all. Maybe it always blows like this when I leave.
It was bitterly cold, far too cold for mid-April, and I found myself worrying about my father in the chill. I urged him to go home, but he stayed, quietly insisting on seeing me off.
I could see it in his eyes — a mixture of love and sadness too heavy for words.

Finally, I convinced him to return home.
As I watched him walk away, a strange ache settled in my chest — a tangle of thoughts about life, time, and responsibility.

After returning home to the U.S., I wrote a series of blogs about my trip to Seoul, ending with a special post about the final day.
I posted many family photos and protected the page with a simple password.
At first, I thought it would be easy.
But the underscore character confused him. Later, the issue was capitalization. His aging eyes struggled to distinguish lowercase from uppercase letters.
We went back and forth for almost a week.
Finally, I simplified the password — no special characters, all lowercase — hoping it would help.
Even then, the "Enter" key became an obstacle.
I wished I could sit beside him and type it in myself.
And suddenly, I realized: this wasn’t just about a password.
This was about a world rapidly changing around my parents, leaving them behind.
Frustration turned to worry. Worry turned to sorrow. Sorrow into a deep, unfamiliar kind of pain — and then, into a greedy wish to somehow freeze time.

How could this be the same man?
The young officer stationed at a foreign airport.
The mind that once managed the entire Korean army's budget.
The leader who won countless licenses, who led companies, fought lawsuits, and built futures.
Now struggling with a password on a phone.

Oh, Time, how cruel you are.

He is still remarkably healthy for his age, thanks to a lifetime of self-discipline.
But I can see it now — how visibly he’s slowing down.
He declared a few years ago that he no longer wanted to fly, which is why I visit him every year instead.

That day, as he walked away from me at the bus stop, the once-mighty mountain of my life looked so small.
Even after he turned the corner, he stayed there, standing at a distance, watching me.
I could do nothing but look back.

I try not to think about it — the truth that terrifies me.
I love him.
I cannot imagine life without my parents.
I have convinced myself that mine will always be here.

I desperately want to hold onto this moment —
My father, my mother, and the time we still share.

Oh, how dearly I want to hold onto it.

 

 

 

작별을 품은 바람

한국 방문을 마치고 미국으로 돌아가는 날은 언제나 비슷하게 느껴집니다.
바람이 불고, 하늘은 잿빛이며, 세상은 고요하기만 해서, 마치 다른 세상에 있는 듯한 기분이 듭니다.
아니, 어쩌면 이 모든 것은 제 마음속에서만 일어나는 일인지도 모르겠습니다.
그저 마음 한편이 먹먹하고, 가슴이 아려올 뿐입니다.

짐을 싸느라 분주히 움직이면서도, 저는 이 조용한 아침에 마음 한 조각을 두고 떠나고 있었습니다.
어머니께서는 이리저리 오가시며 작은 것들을 챙겨주셨고, 아버지께서는 단정히 옷을 차려입으신 채, 몇 시에 나서는지를 거듭 물으셨습니다.
우리 모두 알고 있었습니다. 오늘이 이별의 날이라는 것을.
말로 하지 않아도, 우리의 눈빛은 이미 작별을 이야기하고 있었습니다.

저는 10시 50분에 오는 공항 리무진 버스를 탈 예정이라, 15분 전에 집을 나서겠다고 말씀드렸습니다.
하지만 아버지께서는 언제나 그러셨던 것처럼, 당신만의 방식을 따르셨습니다.
10시가 채 되기도 전에 제 짐 하나를 들고 먼저 집을 나서버리셨습니다.
저는 제대로 작별 인사를 드리고 싶었습니다.
따뜻하게 꼭 한번 안아드리고, 진심을 담은 몇 마디를 전하고, 미안한 마음을 표현하고 싶었지만,
그 순간은 준비할 틈도 없이 스쳐 지나가 버렸습니다.

몇 시간이 주어졌어도 부족했을 텐데, 고작 몇 분 동안 어머니와 급히 몇 마디 인사를 나눴습니다.
'아버지, 왜 그러십니까?' 마음속으로 물었지만, 대답은 이미 알고 있었습니다.
평생을 그렇게 사신 분이시니까요.

나이가 들수록 아버지에 대한 존경심은 더욱 깊어집니다.
어려운 형편 속에서 여섯 남매 중 셋째, 둘째 아들로 태어나셨던 아버지.
전쟁통에도 학교를 하루도 빠지지 않으셨던 분.
점심을 대신해 물로 끼니를 때우셨음에도 자존심은 한없이 높으셨던 분.
또한 경쟁심이 강하셔서, 초등학교 시절 백 편의 시를 외워 대회에 나가셨던 분이십니다.

하지만 가난은 아버지의 꿈을 꺾었습니다.
약학대학을 포기하고 군에 입대하셔야 했습니다.
힘든 군 생활 속에서도 장교가 되기를 결심하시고, 베트남 전쟁에 참전하시며, 대한민국 군의 성장에 크게 기여하셨습니다.
32년간의 군 복무를 마친 뒤에도 민간 기업에서 30년을 더 일하셨습니다.
지금까지도 끊임없이 배우고 다양한 자격증을 취득하시며 스스로를 단련해오셨습니다.
어떤 어려움 앞에서도 항상 정면으로 부딪혀 해결해나가시던 분이셨습니다.

잠깐의 생각을 뒤로하고,
어머니와 서둘러 작별 인사를 나눈 뒤, 나머지 짐을 챙겨 급히 버스 정류장으로 향했습니다.
하지만 버스는 50분 후에나 도착할 예정이었습니다.

길을 걷던 중, 아버지께서 반대편에서 다가오시는 모습을 보았습니다.
짐은 이미 버스 정류장에 두고 오셨는지, 빈손으로 저를 향해 걸어오고 계셨습니다.

조금 전 버스가 지나갔다며 걱정스러운 얼굴로 말씀하셨습니다.
저는 다음 버스를 탈 예정이었고, 사실은 집에서 조금이라도 더 함께 있고 싶었다고 말씀드렸습니다.
아버지께서는 조용히 제 말을 들으시기만 했습니다.
과연 제 말이 아버지께 어떤 의미로 닿았을까요.

바람은 무척이나 매서웠습니다.
제 마음속에서만 느껴지는 것이 아니라, 정말로 세찬 바람이었습니다.
언제나 이별하는 날이면 이렇게 바람이 불었던 것 같습니다.

4월 중순이라고는 믿기 어려울 만큼 추운 날씨였습니다.
아버지께서 감기에 걸리실까 걱정이 되어 몇 번이나 집으로 돌아가시라고 말씀드렸습니다.
하지만 아버지께서는 끝까지 남아 저를 배웅하려 하셨습니다.
그 눈빛 속에 담긴 사랑과 슬픔을 저는 분명히 느낄 수 있었습니다.

결국 아버지를 설득해 집으로 돌려보냈습니다.
멀어져 가는 아버지의 뒷모습을 바라보면서, 가슴 한쪽이 서서히 무너지는 것을 느꼈습니다.

삶에 대한 고민, 시간에 대한 안타까움, 그리고 책임에 대한 무거운 생각들이 서로 뒤엉켜 가슴을 짓눌렀습니다.

미국에 돌아온 후, 저는 서울에서의 기억을 블로그에 글로 남겼습니다.
첫날부터 마지막 날까지의 소중한 순간들을 사진과 글로 기록했습니다.
사진들은 공개하고 싶지 않아 간단한 비밀번호를 설정해 두었습니다.

아무 문제 없을 거라 생각했습니다.
그러나 예상치 못한 문제가 있었습니다.
밑줄(_) 하나가 걸림돌이 되었고, 대소문자 구분이 또 다른 장벽이 되었습니다.
아버지의 눈은 이제 그런 작은 차이조차 구분하기 어려워지고 계셨습니다.

우리는 일주일 넘게 문자와 통화를 반복했습니다.
결국, 특수문자 없이 모두 소문자로 비밀번호를 다시 만들었습니다.

이번에는 다 될 줄 알았지만, 이번엔 "Enter" 키가 또 하나의 벽이었습니다.
그저 곁에 있어 대신 입력해드리고 싶다는 마음뿐이었습니다.

그때 깨달았습니다.
이것은 단순히 비밀번호 문제가 아니었습니다.
빠르게 변하는 세상이 부모님을 점점 더 힘들게 하고 있다는 사실이었습니다.

답답함은 걱정으로,
걱정은 미안함으로,
미안함은 알 수 없는 아픔으로 변했습니다.
그리고 결국, 시간을 붙잡고 싶다는 욕심으로 이어졌습니다.

한때 해외 공항에서 근무하시던 장교.
대한민국 육군의 예산을 책임지셨던 관리자.
수많은 자격증을 취득하고, 은행과 부동산 회사를 이끄셨던 분.
그런 아버지께서 이제는 작은 스마트폰 비밀번호 하나 앞에서 힘겨워하고 계십니다.

시간이여, 참으로 야속합니다.

아버지께서는 여전히 건강하십니다.
평생 철저히 자기 관리를 해오신 덕분입니다.
그러나 세월은 누구에게도 예외를 두지 않습니다.

몇 해 전, 아버지께서는 더 이상 비행기를 타지 않겠다고 선언하셨습니다. 비행기 타시는게 너무 힘들 다 하셨지요.
그때부터 저는 매년 한국을 찾고 있습니다.

그날, 버스 정류장에서 멀어져가는 아버지의 등을 바라보았습니다.
언제나 제게 가장 크고 든든했던 산이, 어느새 작아져 있었습니다.

아버지께서는 길모퉁이에 멈춰 서서, 멀리서 저를 지켜보고 계셨습니다. 그냥 들어가시지...

저는 아무것도 할 수 없었습니다.
그저 가슴 저리게 못본척 바라볼 뿐이었습니다.

저는 생각하지 않으려 합니다.
사실은 두렵기 때문입니다.

저는 아버지를 사랑합니다.
저는 어머니를 사랑합니다.
부모님 없는 삶은 아직도 상상할 수 없습니다.
저는 여전히 부모님이 영원할 것이라 믿고 싶습니다.

저는 이 순간을,
이 짧은 시간을,
아버지와 어머니와 함께하는 이 시간을
붙잡고 싶습니다.

아,
얼마나, 얼마나 간절히 그러고 싶은지요.