The Infinitesimal Part of You - Lee Sungjong

I grew up with only my brother, parents gone, sister dead. My brother, he was a deep person, he thought about things, a lot. But who he was was almost the exact opposite of his thoughts. I’m not quite sure if he really believed in what he once told me:

“The little things in life don’t matter, don’t fret over them. Think of the big things you want to accomplish – only those can be of any significance.”

He appeared superficial, the things he said. He repeated them to me so many times that sometimes I wondered which side he was on, really. I came across his diary once, a brown little hardcover with an elastic strap, these words:

‘It’s hard to decide between my truth and the better lie.’

They remain etched, even though I don’t understand them.

One autumn, he changed. He seemed to have stopped thinking, and cared only about surviving in the harsh reality. He couldn’t hear me anymore, even when I asked this repeatedly:

“Do the little parts of me matter, then?”

I asked it every day, every single time he came home. He would look so tired, so distraught, so weary of life. Perhaps that was why he ignored me. He had no time for stupid little questions as such of mine.

The following autumn, he kept taking out this cassette, a large black disc which he stared at for at least thirty minutes every time. I recognised it. It was the one recording which wasn’t perfect. That day, he had been playing in his makeshift studio, immersed within his music, when I walked in and asked:

“If I don’t start with the smallest things, then, where do I start?”

He played the track and I heard my voice, still a child’s at that time, speaking those words over the intense music of the old keyboard. It was another one of those questions which he never gave an answer to.

Soon we both had wrinkled skin and white hair speckled with grey. He was sitting in that rickety chair, staring far ahead as the track played.

“Do the little parts of me matter, then?”

His eyes widened, and I watched as his head slowly turned.

“Sungjong, is that you?”

I nodded. He stood up slowly from that rotting furniture and hobbled over. He moved with a limp and trembling lips. He held my hands, his smile spilling happiness and a tinge of relief.

“Is it my time?”

I said, I think so. And asked for the last time:

“Do the little parts of me matter, then?”

He clasped my hand as we walked from life – where my term had long expired, from where I had stolen the littlest things to keep in the aftermath.

“Yes. Yes they do.”

The infinitesimal part of you that shows only when you’re there no longer – little, almost nothing, but there nonetheless.