Housewife's Song / Ocean Song
After my mother passed away, I became busy with my own life and never returned to that place again. She was always smiling in her long white dress, as though she had never been angry. Yet, for some reason, whenever I thought of her face, I felt a certain sadness emanating from her—like the sorrow of watching things constantly emerge and disappear. There was always a trace of loneliness that lingered on her face and could not be erased. I remember the time when we were preparing for family trips when I was little. She would personally dress me in a finely tailored suit. Even if I protested, saying I could dress myself, she would simply smile, have me extend my arms into the sleeves, then button me up and tie my bow tie.
"Always dress well, okay? ... One mustn't neglect appearances," she would say.
She continued to wear that same white dress even after my father passed away, as if nothing had ever changed. As a child, I thought, perhaps "dressing properly" was a kind of spell for her, something she used to hold onto the past and fend off sorrow. Yet, there were moments when her face would unexpectedly show an expression of relief. I felt confused. She would place her hands on my shoulders and smile, saying, "It's still the holidays, right? Why don't we go out and have some fun?"
I didn't refuse.
But going to the same places so many times became tiresome, even for a child. It wasn't that we couldn't afford to go somewhere new. Money wasn't a concern—my father had entrusted his business to one of his trusted students and left my mother a large share of the company. That student, who called my father his benefactor, must have been helped by the scholarship program my father launched in his youth. Yet I felt my mother must have been lonely. At least, she should have shown some signs of loneliness. So I asked her about it. She patted my head and smiled, saying:
"But life goes on, doesn't it?"
It was then I realized that, even though my father was gone, my mother and I were still alive—at least for now. It was undeniable logic. By then, I was old enough to understand the concept of death. I knew my father would never knock on the front door again, and I would never see him reading quietly in his study during holidays. But the mornings of the next day, the third day, the fourth, and the fifth would all come, ignoring our grief entirely. I nodded and didn't press further.
I'm unsure if such thoughts are right or wrong. I know it's not proper, but they were desires buried deep in my subconscious, that's why I'm utterly confused. My aging father once told me that what truly matters is the heart—if it's what your heart says, then it's right. But when uninvited thoughts emerged in my heart, should I follow them or bury them deep, ignoring them altogether? Back then, I hopelessly fell in love with her, until our graduation separated us. She went abroad to study, while I became the wife of a young entrepreneur. Only after my husband passed away did I realize I still couldn't suppress my longing for the times we shared. The school, our classmates, the weekly Sunday tea parties, the shaded paths behind the hills, and the Virgin Mary statue in front of the gate—so many things I cherished, most of them must likely have already vanished; then, all the remnants of those memories - where could they be now?
The first time I met Y was when my father was still alive, though he often had to travel abroad for work and was rarely at home. Most of my time, outside of school, was spent with my mother. One day, just past noon, she unexpectedly dressed up, put on makeup, and left me in the care of our maid. She took her handbag and went out. At school, I had recently heard a story from a friend about a mother who had children with different men, left them alone in a room, and disappeared. That story frightened me. Even though the maids tried to comfort me, I spent the afternoon restless and uneasy. Thankfully, she returned before dinner, her face carrying a mix of joy and melancholy. When I asked her where she had been, she hugged me and said, "It's Mommy's secret. But don't worry; I'll tell you someday."
That "someday" didn't make me wait long. The very next afternoon, she took me out. That was the first time I met her. She looked at my mother with a hint of loneliness on her face..
They embraced. "I thought it was time for you to see this," my mother said.
"...Hello," I said.
"...Hello, young master," she replied with a smile and gently patted my head.
I harbored resentment toward her, fearing she might take my mother away. But when she reached out to touch me, I felt something inexplicable—something that mirrored the aura surrounding my mother. I couldn't say another word. I began to wonder if I was the one who didn't belong in this scene.
That afternoon, we retraced the usual route, visiting places we had long since grown familiar with. My face remained a mask of boredom throughout, though my mother seemed to enjoy herself, and Y quietly watched her with a smile. If my mother liked it, I didn't mind. Just as I thought this, my mother suddenly stopped in front of a Western-style building by the artificial lake.
"Ah..." Y sighed softly. "If you want to come again, let's come together."
"...Alright" my mother responded.
Suddenly, she embraced Y, burying herself in her arms. Her tears smudged her makeup.
"It's okay... it's okay," Y comforted her, gently stroking her back.
Looking back, that was the first time I saw my mother cry. She always gave the impression of being so strong—smiling even after my father's death, as if life must go on. But if there was a fragile core behind her strength, what could I possibly do to dispel her sadness? Or was it even something I, someone who knew so little about her despite being by her side every day, could accomplish? Perhaps even my father had never seen this side of his wife. I could only watch them in silence, unable to utter a word. Even now, I doubt I truly understand even a fraction of her.
When I was sixteen, my mother was in a car accident. I sat by her hospital bed, holding her hand. At that moment, I felt a vast chasm between us, a distance that couldn't be bridged by the fact that she was my mother and I her son. I even questioned myself—had I never felt any familial love for her in my sixteen years of life? Yet, at that moment, I thought, perhaps it really wasn't about me. There was now a greater distance between us than I had ever known, but at least in that moment, I felt closer to her existence than ever before.
...I can't forget the image of her stretching in the dance studio. Her white ballet practice outfit clung to her body, outlining her balanced figure. She paused and leaned against the barre. Spring sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating one side of her face.
"Aren't you going to change? You'll miss the next class," she asked.
"Uh... I'll go in a minute."
I replied, somewhat flustered.
Even after spending years at this academy and my fear of speaking to people had diminished slightly because of it, whenever I'm in her presense, I would still become clumsy and nervous. I wanted to know her, to learn everything about her. This unfamiliar feeling—what should I do with it? Just imagining her leaping gracefully on stage made my heart race uncontrollably. I wanted to dance with her. I didn't need anything else; just her presence was enough.
After my mother passed away, I dismissed all the household staff, keeping only one cleaner to occasionally tend to the house. Some suggested selling the estate, but I refused. Even someone as restless as I was needed a place to return to now and then. More importantly, I couldn't bring myself to put a price tag on the memories of my time with my mother. Whenever I traveled between cities, I would often find myself unintentionally recalling scenes from my dreams: in a white ballroom, my younger self sat on the floor, watching people waltz. Sunlight poured in through Gothic-style stained glass windows, and someone appeared to be playing the piano on a nearby platform. I never saw my mother in these dreams, yet everything felt just right, as though the atmosphere I had always associated with her had been recreated in this ballroom through the light, the piano, the windows, the white marble columns, and everything else, enveloping the space. A wave of dizziness would wash over me, and then I would awaken.
Perhaps I truly had once sat on the floor of a ballroom, watching people dance, I thought. After my mother's death, such dreams became more frequent. Each time I woke, I would find my pillow wet with tears.
Was I crying over such memories?
Not long after, I left the city where I had been staying and returned to the house. Having notified the cleaner in advance, I arrived to find it spotless, though devoid of any trace of the life that once existed there. Looking around at the familiar surroundings, I felt an overwhelming sense of alienation. I unrolled a sleeping bag and lay down on the living room floor. The next morning, for the first time in three months, I awoke without having had the same dream. In fact, I hadn't dreamt at all. A good omen, I thought.
I retraced the lakeside path my mother and I used to walk. The park was nearly empty; the recent financial crisis had driven away the last of the industrialists who had lived nearby. They had returned to cramped rental apartments in the neighboring city, as though their ventures and villas had never existed. I arrived at the door of the Western-style building where my mother had once wept. I asked the gatekeeper if I could enter.
"If you want to go in, go ahead," he said, likely mistaking me for a slightly eccentric artist. "There's no one left, and nothing much inside."
So I opened the door.
The lingering atmosphere from my dreams engulfed me again as the scene from my memories came to life. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows into the empty ballroom; the piano on the platform was long gone. Tears slid down my cheeks, falling onto the dust-covered floor.
The memory hinted at by the dream was real. My mother, dressed in her signature white dress, had once danced in this ballroom. In my limited recollections, I had never seen her as joyful as she was then—spinning and gliding, as if she was born to dance. But so what? My mother was long gone, and this place, too, was vanishing bit by bit, leaving behind only large, cumbersome relics too trouble some to dispose of. A deep sorrow overwhelmed me. Time had slowly torn apart the foundation of my memories without me even realizing it, and I had no means to resist. I fell to my knees, desperately searching the phantom atmosphere for traces of the past.
"Are you sure it's okay for him to just watch?" she asked.
"...It's fine," I replied.
And so, we danced. In our youth, we had dismissed such dances as lowbrow, something one learned only to blend into society. Our world had consisted of aged Western buildings, Monday morning prayers, extracurricular activities befitting the image of proper ladies, and classical ballet. But what did that matter? As long as I could dance with her one more time, as long as I could confirm this unspoken feeling just once, that was enough for me. We had once kissed under the moonlight; now, I only wished time would freeze at this moment, so that everything I had lost and regained here in this ballroom—even if only an illusion—could finally find its way back into my heart.