In a quiet corner of the storage room—within the first home I’ve owned in the 26 years since immigrating to the U.S.—
rests a plain, unremarkable guitar.

I once practiced guitar briefly, for about two months at a cousin’s house, long ago.
But I had no gift for it, so I let it go—and I’ve never owned one since.

The guitar that sits here isn’t mine. It was left behind by my only child, my son, during a visit.
He doesn’t come here anymore. We no longer keep in touch – only my wife exchanges a text message with him once or twice a year.
Time speeds by like an arrow loosed, and some days I find myself wondering if he’s even alive.
And when I discover that he is, I exhale a silent sigh of relief.

Every so often, I hold the guitar and try again. But if I couldn’t make it sing in my youth, how could I now?
The guitar, untouched and mute, has no reason to weep. It simply waits, a silent witness in the shadows of the room.

When one of my neighbors was holding a garage sale not long ago, I briefly considered giving it away. But I couldn’t.
That guitar is the only thing my son has ever left behind in this house.
Even if I cannot make it weep, I hold onto it with the fragile hope that someday, he’ll return—and coax a song from it again.

To throw it away would be to surrender that hope.
So I keep the guitar. The one that has not wept for so long.

While waiting for the guitar to weep again, I am writing my life story for my son—so that, even after I am gone, traces of my existence will remain in a quiet corner of his memory. With those memories as his foundation, I fervently hope he will live wisely and happily, avoiding the mistakes and misfortunes I endured for most of my life.

저랑 같은 시기에 미국에 오셨네요.. IMF로 회사 문닫고~

good idea

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