Slow

The back is almost all better -- turns out that trips into Roadie-ville that turn into sojourns in Workers Comp-land are rather painful but short-lived. (The funny and brilliant BC, by the way, was the one who termed me a roadie when I dinged my back.)

I remembered, in my many hours of lying down, that this exact situation happened to a college classmate of mine last year, a struggling musician in New York who completely threw out his back lifting an amp and spent several months trying to live on disability checks while barely able to move. To which I say: Damn.

Being injured made me move very slowly the past few days, which was a little funny to me, since my mom last week observed that I tend to walk fast, often leaving her a few steps behind me as we trotted around town. Last night I went to dinner in the Italian district with the French King and his Queen, and I walked from the subway stop to the restaurant with small, deliberate steps. On the one hand, I thought, "So this is what it'll be like, being old." On the other hand, it was kind of nice, actually, to slow down.

My grandmother and great-aunt, whom I saw off today at the airport with the rest of the Seoul Team, move slowly, but with great vigor. These are not fragile ladies. Their draw in the genetic lottery gave them a good deal of strength and tenacity in these, the twilight years.

I say "twilight," but even as I write that, I doubt its accuracy. They are in their late 70s, but they seem hale and hearty, and, god willing, will remain so for another many years. My dad remarked last week that it had been 10 years since my college graduation. In 10 years hence, perhaps some of those hale and hearty folks who filled the RV O' Fun this month wouldn't be here anymore, he said. It was a morbid thought, though not meant that way.

At the airport, I thanked them again -- my aunt, my great-aunt, my grandmother -- for coming this far to be with me on graduation. My great-aunt hugged me with ferocity; my grandmother did the same. Just before they got in line for the security check, my grandmother held my hands in hers and just looked at me, smiling, wordless, full of emotion. I nearly teared up then, and then again as I stood there, waving frantically as they slowly got through security and periodically turned around to see if I was still there. They got further and further away, and smaller and smaller, but I could still see their wrinkled hands waving in unison again and again and again, until my dad, the last one to go, was a tiny orange-jacketed dot in the hallway and with a final wave, vanished.

When we were walking to the checkpoint, my aunt walked alongside me and sighed, "We meet and then we part. Meet and part." I answered in my kindergarten Korean, "That's life." I know, logically, that part of the reason I feel so strongly about the Seoul Team is because I didn't grow up with them, never had to deal with the frustrations of daily family life with them when I was younger. I met them as an adult, with an adult's appreciation of the brevity of life, with an adult's appreciation of rootedness and belonging. They never asked me for anything, and unlike the relatives I did grow up with, they're pretty low maintenance. They give me things; heck, when I arrived at the airport, my grandmother pushed a plate of rice cakes and fruit at me to eat for lunch. And so, with an adult's appreciation for unconditional love and generosity -- almost entirely one-way -- I can't help but be deeply, deeply moved in all my interactions with them, and feel more than a little like crying when we part.