The Flowers He Gave Me |Kim Namjoon|

14. the envelope

– the envelope –

I'VE FOUND MY SALVATION in the notes of my guitar once again. I've found a way to love playing once more. Finally, I cherish it again, together with living.

     With a stronger heart, I descend the stairs, and find my mother strolling through our house with the paper in her hands. She glances at me then back at the letters of ink. She realizes the extreme change in a heartbeat. Then she eyes me, but remains silent as I make my way to the stove in the living room. I nestle myself in front of the dancing flames, my instrument close to me. I don't want it to go again.

     "You're playing again." She lets it out like a relieved exhale. All too conscious of her curious gaze on me, I nod my head.

     She surprises me when she turns, head into the kitchen, and leave the paper there. While the news sucks her up each day again, she now leaves it for what it is. I meet her warm eyes again when she hurries herself on the couch, watching me. Though she says nothing.

     "What?" I ask her, troubled by the unexpected silence between us.

     "Sing for me, Jup," she asks then. The light of the fire reflects onto her warm face. I watch the light dance as I let her demand sink in. I don't answer, which is why she decides to push even more. "Please, sing something for me." Her voice leaves her dry lips as a plea.

     In Korea, with Binna, she loved when I went to play for an audience, even though it wasn't that big. She wanted her only child to be social, to be strong enough to face the world.

     When I quit, she didn't comment much. We both went through a period of mourning, though mine never came to an end. She saw coming here, to America, as a new beginning–which it was–but my sadness didn't depart by moving here. She never asked me to play or sing, though she did want me to feel something different than anxiety and depression. She wanted her daughter to live.

     I guess she's seen the light of life in my eyes again, and perhaps, I feel it shining inside of me, too. Something's changed. It's all happening now. Suddenly.

     Still.

     "I don't sing," I mumble, probably childlike. "You know I don't."

     "A lot has changed since the concert, didn't it?" She wonders it loud, though I get the feeling she's already sure of it. I mean, I am carrying my guitar with me downstairs. It's been ages since I've even looked at it.

     I stare at my mother, and see only truth in her sparkling eyes. Her brown hair falls down onto her shoulders, and hops when she glances at the empty kitchen.

     "You've began enjoying music again. It's been three years since I've seen your guitar–since I've heard your divine voice. So, sing for me, Jup. Please."

     Stressed by the suddenness of it all, I pull at my sleeves, so I feel more covered in general. For a short amount of time, I'm not even willing to look at my mother again, knowing very well she's asking me to put my time of mourning behind me, to begin anew.

     But then again, didn't I already?

     A shaky breath leaves my now dry lips. I feel my body tense under the overwhelming pressure.

     Binna's not here–not in the way I want my best friend to be. I want her next to me, so I can see her sparkling eyes and hear her brilliant voice. I want my best friend.

     I don't know why I open my mouth. Maybe it's because the faded guitar's notes need a voice to finally complete them. Maybe it's because music will never leave my blood. Maybe I'm craving it, too.

     But I sing out loud. For my mother. For Binna. For myself.

     The sounds mix, create a melody I've never even tried out before. A certain, special warmth radiates off Mom as she takes it all in, and her eyes couldn't look brighter to me. In all these years, she's awaited my real arrival–not the arrival of the lifelike doll that only pretended to be whole.

     I sing, and I enjoy the words I am making up in the moment with everything I've got in me. I feel my pulse quickening, the skin around my eyes crinkling. Music's been my poison since birth as it was my redemption.

     I come home for the first time in years. Binna's wings curl around me. My skin tingles in anticipation. She's next to me when the sentences leave my lips. She's right there and always will be. My best friend.

     Once the song comes to its end, I realize my tearstained cheeks, though I don't get myself to care.

     "Thank you," my mother whispers kindly. Her face droops then, and she reveals an envelope out of her pocket. My eyes fall upon it immediately–a teensy flowerhead popping out of it with great difficulty.

     A clematis.

     I'm at the table in no time, with the exact same speed my mother exited the living room several short minutes ago. With shaking hands, I throw out of the envelope its contents, Mom's head above my shoulder, watching my actions. There's a letter, a total of four concert tickets, and a clematis–Namjoon's birthflower.:

     Namjoon Namjoon Namjoon

     How did I not see this coming? My mother would've never asked out of herself, wanting me to heal on my own tempo.

     My eyes fall on the beautifully written words on the paper next to the colourful flower.

     Make her sing. Do whatever it takes, but make her sing again.