“Tears of the widower, when he sees

A late-lost form that sleep reveals,

And moves his doubtful arms, and feels

Her place is empty, fall like these.

Which weep a loss forever new,

A void where heart on heart reposed;

And, where warm hands have pressed and closed,

Silence, till I be silent too."

‘In Memoriam’ 13:1-8 

-Lord Alfred Tennyson

*

            I wasn’t really sure what was happening but found it painful to think on too long. Minho had changed it seemed—or perhaps, was merely acting more like himself than I’d given him credit for. There were many things he did not know or understand. I wondered what he would think he knew them all. I began to wonder if I’d misjudged him, if he’d ever realize how far he’d misjudged me…

            The errands were accomplished easily in two hours’ time but I was too distracted in thought to notice the time. I was hesitant to go back just yet. I don’t know how but I found myself back there again, in that familiar spot where I’d first seen them. The place where I first watched them; here, the place where her last breath left this world and rose into heaven.

            That day, I saw her hand sweep across her forehead, moist with the errant spray of sweat that beaded about her temples. She'd been chasing her dog, somewhat lethargically, around the playground’s rim. It wasn't like her; she could have been ill for all I know, or maybe just tired. Whatever the reason, I wondered why he wasn’t with her. I had waited specifically for him, as always, but this day—the only day she ever had—she came alone.

            I hated to remember it.

            Oh, Minho, why didn’t you go with her? I've thought a thousand times since. Why weren’t you with her that day? I was always too afraid to ask. How could I? What could he possibly say to so cruel a question that he, no doubt, rehearsed enough in his head?

            I don’t know how long I sat there, the grass beneath me now fading with the weathering seasons, as I remained lost in the rhythm of cyclic memories and concerns. Why had Minho reacted that way? I asked myself again and again, trying not to think too much on the occasion itself or how it left me feeling extremely uncomfortable, but for the wrong reasons. Did he know…? Was he…? What would he say if he knew the truth—all the many truths?

            I really struggled then how to proceed. On the one hand, I felt like a walking lie; on the other, my every effort—from beginning to end—was rooted in good intentions. Whether or not he would see this, I could not know...

            Ahead, I could see children playing tag, oblivious to the dark scene that had happened near there over a year before, or the heaviness of my mind because of it. The oak was still chipped and scarred by the collision, the pavement faintly marred by the stain. My stomach turned to think on it. I know Minho hadn’t come back here since. At least, not at a time where I was here also. It was too painful a reminder, I was sure.

            That day. That day, I hadn’t expected such a tragedy. No one did. But who ever expected such things to happen? Such freakishly horrific circumstances? The day started like any other day. Sunny. Not too warm, not too cold. Average in every way. Routine. I therefore expected nothing but average and routine things to continue; like many other days, I had my morning “coffee” at Café Toscana then made my way to the park nearby, hoping to see the familiar faces I’d grown accustomed to, even though they always failed to see mine. My usual spot was taken, however—perhaps the first signifier, albeit subtle, that many things would go awry that day—so I found a new spot across the playground and opened the faded cover of the book I’d been reading.

            Like a nervous habit, I checked my phone for the time. I expected them about 12:30 p.m., the usual. Distractedly, my eyes scanned the same page over and over; I was waiting to see that tall frame turn the corner at any moment, dark and handsome, walking next to his petite partner. Expected those broad shoulders clad in that beige overcoat he was always prone to wear and scarf around his neck, to break the monotony of city and sky that dominated my field of vision under the ambivalent sunlight.

            But he didn’t come. Even after twenty minutes passed, he did not come. Thirty minutes more. I didn’t know why I still waited. I was about to forfeit when I saw her ahead, faithful terrier by her side, its turquoise bow fastened loosely around its collar. I knew the dog’s name was Gonji; I’d heard them call it enough by now. It was a comfort to see them there, though I was dissapointed that he was not with them.

            I continued to watch the pair jog in a circle around the playground, careful to hide my attentive expression behind the edges of my otherwise-boring novel. She seemed distracted, almost sad. Her usual brightness was somewhat dim; the smile I’d seen flashed so many times now seemed reticent and burdened. Heavy. Had she and her lover fought, was that why she was alone? I had the strange impulse to talk with her. I don’t know why. Perhaps because I felt I knew her by now, even though I remained a stranger. I wanted to ask her if she was all right... but how could I do this? I contemplated it for a few seconds more, the impulse to go to her formidably strong. So much so that it almost felt painful to stay in place. It didn’t make sense, I argued with myself in that moment; it didn’t make sense for me to talk to her. What would I say, or she? She wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t understand me. I don’t even know what I would have said, or if it would have made a difference. I have wondered this many times since. Many, many times. Had I been obedient to impulse, would it have changed it all…?

            I don’t know who first saw it then. I certainly didn’t understand the events as they were happening, and even afterward, found it hard to process how the devastating circumstances played out. The first thing I noticed was Gonji barking, then a woman shriek in surprise; I didn’t hear the screeching tires or the grinding gears. They were loud enough certainly, but for some reason I do not remember this. I didn’t see the bus veering from one lane to the other, only the ton of metal shift aimlessly off the road and into the park. After it stopped a transformer blew, followed by an uproar of panicked voices; sparks from the brakes now shot, glass from the broken dash which had smashed against the tree responsible for halting it. Kids were screaming. Already, the faint sound of sirens were calling in the distance. But Gonji was no longer barking. And when I realized I had lost sight of her, I became afraid.

            When I got close enough to see, I noted the red discharge all about the front bumper of the bus. Fur too, though it was much harder to make out. What I did know was that Gonji was buried too far under the rubber to be discernable, but I could tell from a single thread of the tattered turquoise hem. I could tell just by seeing it. I could tell all.

            The acerbic taste of shock shot up my throat. To realize what had happened in that moment alone was terrible enough. But when someone began to cry: “Agasshi, agasshi! Neo gwaenchanh ni?!”

            Of course she wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t okay. She was moving, but her twitches were most likely post-mortem, they explained. A "quick and painless death" was reported, though it was hard to believe, considering the tumultuous wave of terror she must have felt before her end. It was no one’s fault—that’s what they would tell her husband when he came to identify her. But it was someone’s fault: not the car, whose driver suffered a sudden at the wheel which caused the oncoming bus to veer off the road, as we would later find out from the police—but mine.

            Mine, because I did not go to her when I had the chance. Did not talk to her like I told myself I should. Had I, I could have taken her place, sparing her lover from his tears, leaving the lives that depended on her, whole and unharmed. Or perhaps no one would have died at all; perhaps she and I would have walked away from there, talking over common interests and trivial things—maybe she wouldn’t have thought me weird or desperate. And maybe, just maybe, she would have understood me. Understood my fascination. My attraction. Maybe we could have all been friends. Maybe… no one really needed to die in the first place, but like everything else in my life, I had ruined my chances. Ruined lives. Ruined. Ruined. Ruined.

            He didn't know that I was there. Of course he didn't; he didn't even know who I was. But I knew him. Immediately, I knew as he came rushing down the sidewalk, a small pink bag in his right hand that he no longer regarded. He must have been nearby when they called him. And oh, if he had only been that much closer that much sooner, maybe something would have altered...

            I will never forget the look on his face when he saw her. I will never, ever forget that look. My heart broke for him. I had never seen him unhappy before that day; never seen him happy since. As much as my world was turned upside from then on, it was nowhere as violent as I knew it had been for him. I wanted desperately to console him then but how could I? How could I even bring myself to introduce myself under circumstances like these? Horrible, terrible, and guilty circumstances? Would he blame me as much as I did myself? Would he hate me?

            I watched him crumble underneath himself on the sidewalk, a broken shadow of a man too violently struck with the pangs of tragedy and sorrow. That his wife had died—what sense was there in that? It was pointless loss. Loss that could have been avoidable with the slightest of differences of fate. Choices. Aside from Gonji, who was also standing in a misfortunate place, all other persons escaped with their lives; were rushed to the hospital with treatable injuries. But she—she would never wake up from this crimson sleep. She would never wake up. And I wondered then what it would be like to see: your very last recognition of this earth, those steel jaws headed for you, those large domed eyes hungry and unfeeling, ready to consume you without prejudice or care. And for no reason. No reason whatsoever, only leaving terrible pain and suffering for those left behind.

            For the first time in my life, I truly saw the world as cruel and unfair. I had never had it easy, that's for sure, but I never knew what it was like to suffer the way that I imagined he had to feel every waking hour of every painful day. That there was one who suffered way more than I ever could? He was the reason I wanted to make it right somehow. I would find a way to make things right... 

           I breathed in the now-cooling air. The sun would be setting soon. The kids were retreating to their homes now, to their mothers and fathers, their reserved places at the family table. And I? For the first time, I had somewhere to be also. I felt a sudden drive to get back. There was still much to do at home.       

____________

A/N: 

Traffic accidents are one of the highest leading causes of death in Seoul, especially for women. This event was inspired by a real accident in 2009 where an oncoming car swerved into the opposite side, forcing a bus off the road completely, and into a subway platform. Thankfully, no one was hurt here, only injured; but it is easy to imagine the fate of any poor pedestrian walking by. So, this is the sad story of Minho's wife's passing, as well as the state of guilt Taemin feels, no matter how irrational it may or may not be.  T_T  Certainly, her death has linked them together. Now we have to find out how her absence will play out in both of their lives. 

Best, UnnieM ♥