A Puzzling Face

The season my grandfather passed away has returned.

My mother sobbed like a child, stroking my grandfather who lay cold. Unable to partake in that sorrow, I simply stood back. As my grandfather was cremated, we all ate cold gimbap in the waiting room. That gimbap, which we munched on while looking at his portrait, was, to my chagrin, incredibly delicious. Amidst those strange times – shedding tears, then laughing at someone’s joke, only to feel sorrowful again – my grandfather departed forever. My grandfather crumbled into dust when I saw someone dozing off while holding his portrait, heard the noisy chatter of mourners gathered around the white plastic table, and saw my grandmother’s shrunken back lying in a corner of the room. A faded leaf hangs precariously on a tree, then eventually falls to the ground. It is kicked and trampled by unknown feet, crumbling into dust. Life and death have become so dry, and I say it’s all because of autumn. Amidst the vibrant street’s cosmos flowers and lantern sculptures, with a puzzling face, I blame autumn.