I sat down on one of the rusty folding chairs we had pulled from a pile against the wall. The others gathered their own chairs and together we formed a small circle. The people in this room are quiet but considering what they’ve all been through, I understand. As the rest of them were fumbling around for their assignment, I pulled my own slip of paper out of the pocket on my jacket. It’s been in there since I left the barracks this morning and is a little soft from the sweat that soaked through my uniform during PT. Maybe I should have put it somewhere safer but training didn’t end until 1700 hours and the meeting started at 1730. 

Running my fingers across the limp note and unfolding it gently, I can already see the smearing ink, but the words are legible and that’s all I need. Just to be able to see the words, find my bearings when the tears start to strangle me. They always do. Every week for the last two months I’ve tried to talk about it. The loss. My commander’s been on my back about my attitude and the men have started to notice the change. This class, the grieving spouse support group, should have been helping. But when they look in my direction, waiting for my words, the lump that forms in my throat steals my voice, and on occasion, when the memories become too real after listening to others talk about the scent of their wife’s hair or the feel of their husband’s fingers when they last held hands, my breath lives me and I run to the hall, gasping and silently sobbing. Hopefully today will be easier. I have a script today.

“The assignment last week was to write a poem about your loved one telling them what you regret not doing.  This way we can identify the sources of our unresolved grief and in the process find a way to make peace with our unfinished business. I know this will be difficult for us all so rather than call names, I will draw from the hat to start. Now let’s see here…looks like ‘Choi’ you’re up first.”

Standing up from the chair is dizzying. Honestly, this is my first time talking about it…ever. Breathing deep, I can hear my heart beat in the absence of any other sound and with all of the eyes in the room staring at me, I’m frozen and unsure. Thank God the smile is here.

Sergeant Lee is a new addition to the group and the only other Asian here. He’s not anymore of a talker than I am but he’s got that smile. I see it and it’s not like the others. The smile isn’t pitying or awkward or fake. Just there, telling me it is alright and I believe it. Coughing a bit to clear my suddenly dry throat, I start to read.

I Regret

I regret not eating sidewalk hot dogs with you.

You wanted me to go to New York with you but I had virtually maxed out my R & R time.

I promised that next year, instead of going to see my parents at Christmas, we would take a cruise.

Just you and me.

You said you didn’t like cruises, but you loved street food and now that you were in the states, you wanted street hot dogs like the ones served on t.v., right off of a cart.

You wanted to walk down the street with me, holding hands and eating like we never could in Seoul.

But our anniversary was coming up and I didn’t want to tell you about the three day skiing trip I had planned.

You didn’t know.

I actually love hot dogs and wanted to go too.

But you had Nicole and you guys had driven to Georgia together before so New York was no big deal.

If I had gone with you, you wouldn’t have been so tired. The highway wouldn’t have hypnotized you. I could have driven instead.

There were a couple more lines but the lump had been creeping its way back up and I just can’t finish. I wouldn’t be able to. So I sit in my chair and lean over my feet, elbows resting on my knee caps as I try to take long drags of air into my lungs, willing the pain back down. The rest of the class have started taking their turns and the sounds of their loss, grief and regret fill the hollow spaces of the room with their echoes, bouncing off bare walls and reverberating in my chest. I try to drown them out with the tapping of my foot on the tile, but after a minute or so, I recognize the beat I was tapping out. It was a song. The song our alarm sang every morning as we awoke to another morning together. The realization stills my foot and for the rest of the session, I close my eyes hoping to for it to all be over soon. Please be over soon.

Class is almost over and Sergeant Lee is the last to speak. I listen to him with an interest I didn’t have in anyone else's story. Maybe it was because of the quiet comfort of his voice and the rich depth of tone or the way he was smiling, something I couldn’t imagine myself doing in such a place. But with his words I can understand why he was smiling. His regret …

I Regret

Not cheating on our Economics mid-term with you.

You always knew how to keep me from studying with kisses and touches.

You made me so distracted that I was a frazzled mess by the time the test came around.

You weren’t studying any harder than I was but you passed with flying colors and for the remainder of our college years you always made fun of me about my 80 in Eco compared to your 96.

You cheated, I know you did. But I’m not mad. I could never be mad. I just wish I knew how you did it.

Maybe one day you can tell me.

The teasing tone in his voice betrayed no hint of the sadness that permeated everyone else’s statements and I was jealous. Just the thought of my love broke me down. I longed to be able to speak with that light in my eyes and that mirth in my voice. But I buried my joy in the ground those two years ago.

I hurry out of class as quick as I can and hightail it to the coffee shop down the road. My hands are itching to grasp something that I gave up long ago.  When I was young, I used to smoke my anxiety away but that was before we moved to the US. Living here was supposed to be our new start so I gave up cigarettes and hard liquor in favor of coffee. It’s an easy addiction to feed and proved a lot safer to indulge in after the accident. Drowning in the dark brown liquid caffeine, I could still drive home at the end of a bender at the Starbucks when I could have easily poisoned myself to death at the bar. A lot of nights it was a white chocolate mocha or a ginger caramel latte that saved me from dwelling in my misery. So now I’m kind of a connoisseur and this coffee place was the best in town.

There are always a lot of people in this café but I don’t mind waiting. Usually I spend the time thinking of a new flavor combo to sample. Last time it was the green tea chai latte Frappuccino but this time I think I might do something simple, maybe a cinnamon cappuccino with skim milk or..

“ing hell, man.”

Some is drunk and trying to weasel his way into the line. Unfortunately for him, I am not in the mood to deal with his stink or his lack of grace. Breathe, Minho, breathe. It’s always been like this. I hate being harassed, I get tired of being shoved around and this guy is really pushing my buttons. Just ignore him, just ignore him.

“Hey, freak, you’re holding up the line.”

Freak. Freak. Freak. Stupid, idiot, disgusting freak. There are all these words and they mean things, more than what is said, but what is implied and I just can’t shut off the images of all the words and the way you cried and the way I would pound at the bullies. So I fight. I hit and I smash and I wait for that feeling. That thick, warm and wet feeling on my knuckles, that satisfying crunch and just as I can feel it coming, I am drug away from the shouts and the screaming and the noises and the words and soon, I am far away from the sirens until it is just another fight like the others that pollute my early memories of us.

“Hey Choi, you alright.”

I know that voice but why is it here? Standing in front of me is Sergeant Lee and he looks like he just broke up a fight. He probably did if we are here and the drunk guy is back at the café. Looking at him is hard because I am ashamed of the way I reacted, I am ashamed of being seen losing all of my composure, but mostly, I am scared of receiving his pity because I don’t want that look that people give you when they feel sorry for you. I can take it from anyone but him. Not him.

Being braver than I feel, I bring my head back up to search his eyes, but there is no pity. Confusion maybe and concern, but he doesn’t judge me and for once I don’t feel like hiding. I don’t feel like lying, pretending that my heart has not been rattling in my chest, broken for 22 months, 3 weeks, 1 day and several hours. I just don’t want to deny the hurt anymore.

“Choi, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, but when or if you ever want to talk about your wife, I’ll listen.”

Will he listen, because I want to talk. I want to yell. I just don’t want to deny it anymore because it was real. We were real. We were just as legitimate as any other couple and I want to mourn you the way you deserved. I don’t want to hide you in death the way they wanted me to hide you in life.

“I never had a wife.”

I’ve said it and I’m scared, but I can finally breathe. Almost two years and all I’ve taken are shallow breaths around my family and fellow soldiers. I’ve minded my pronouns and remained ambiguous but not right now. I miss you. I miss my husband and every day I regret not spending more time with you in the sun, holding your hand and kissing your face and speaking your name against your lips as I held you and caressed you. I miss you, hyung. God, how I miss you.

The peace of the alley way remains unbroken, heavy with silence. I’m waiting. Waiting for Sergeant Lee to sneer, or shout or just ing do something. Then he raises his hand and I’m ready to fight him. Ready to defend you the way I did in Seoul where we met and the world told us how wrong we were, how two men weren’t meant to know love the way we loved, the way I loved you, the way I still love you. I’m ready for when he lands his hand on my shoulder and I am ready for harsh words. But I’m not ready for soft eyes and an even softer voice coming from downcast eyes carrying their own burden. I’m not ready, but I’m grateful to hear him say it. Grateful to be there to hear him, to be for him what he has been for me. Someone to listen when he says.

“My husband’s name was ChangSun, but everyone called him Joon. My Joonie. What was your husband’s name?”

“Kibum. My husband’s name was Kibum.”