It's nearly 10 p.m. on the eve of my return to Korea and I'm already packed. Two large suitcases- 42.3 and 45.8 pounds. One small carry on. Blue. (She's arriving by fast train in about two hours, you wrote, coming from the modern to an ancient capital, bringing in her blue suitcase on wheels- a two-week wait since we last touched base in 3D.) One small backpack. (I remember picking it out during a trip to Jinju. You was impressed by its grey color and smart design.)
Last summer packing was trickier. I had, in a matter of under two weeks, come back from Korea to clear my house of its belongings, taking back with me whatever would fit in my suitcases. Korea would now be my home. (We turned corners, dog-eared them, saluting the sun we saw in each other, you wrote. I came to call you home.)
Last year I had to sit on my suitcases to zip them shut. Inside were gifts for you I had collected during my short stay- my intention to save them for Christmas but the excitement was too much. I knew I'd be pulling out gifts before we reached the door to the car in the airport parking lot. Sage green flannel sheets. Dark chocolate. Two Billy Collins poetry collections. (We pulled those sheets from the mattress of your new place after you died. Those sheets kept us warm on chilly Korean winter mornings. Each night we lift dark, tight covers, you wrote, & climb down into sleep, intent like start sailors.)
Last year I packed late into the night. You were, at the same time, existing in your Korean afternoon, the sun already brightly illuminating your surroundings. We skyped our excitement. (Only 1 more sleep!) Last year I was coming home. Last year I was coming home to you.
This year I am acutely aware that "home" was a place where you existed. I am not coming home this time. I am returning to the place you were. But I am doing so with the expectation of making a home again. This new Korea. This new home with adventures weaving memories of me and friends I have yet to connect with. I will do this. I will connect and I will experience and I will make for myself a home in which I can still catch your shadow when the light is just right.
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