Everything has a beginning and an end. Kind of cliché, I know. In a world where time drives us through life, we have to believe that there’s a starting point and an ending point. Little things like our clothes are made by planting the cotton seeds, gathering up cotton, going to the factory and to the stores, and finally to our hands. Then we wear it for few years and throw it away, where it decomposes and becomes nothing. Likewise, humans are born, live their lives, and wither away into nothing. After about 90 to 100 years later, the world forgets that those particular people existed (Unless you are a famous person who made a difference in the world).

That’s the sad truth. And I’ve been thinking a lot about this beginning and ending recently, not totally out of random, but because my grandfather is in the hospital right now. He is 77, a man of solitude, who has less than a percent of humor in him. He is a traditional Korean man, who believes that women has to obey everything that men says.

But he is also a man who survived the Korean War, who taught at a local school for kids, worked hard day and night to get our family where it is now. When I was young, I remember my grandfather holding a cigarette in one hand, giving me a candy with the other. I remember him writing down his daily stocks on a thin, worn out notebook, just in case he wants to go back and look at them again. I remember holding his hands and walking through a park, with him being silent and me chattering about childish things. He would always be in his room, without friends, without life, watching T.V. and occasionally coming out to smoke.

And now, no one is in his room. No one is waking up 5 in the morning to get the newspaper.

I visited him today in the hospital. We had to go to the ‘Cancer Center’ to find his room. When we got there, I saw my grandfather with three different kinds of needles stuck to his now-gaunt arms. His wrinkles became more wrinkly; no fat, just skin. He tried to get up when he saw us, but he couldn’t, because he hadn’t been eating for a month already. My grandmother looked mad tired. She had been with him since he moved to the hospital. I left his the room after saying hi to him because I was feeling both guilt and sadness at the same time. Guilt, because I didn’t care about him for years. In fact, I thought grandpa was really annoying, with him demanding this and that around the house. Sadness, because he said I was his favorite granddaughter. Sad, because he only looked for me in the hospital. Guilt, because I avoided going to the hospital for an unknown reason.

Perhaps the reason was because I hate the hospital. I hate the plain white walls with the spotless floors, I hate the white gowns on doctors, I hate the bustling of activities in the lobby, I hate the peculiar hospital smell, and I really hate seeing sick people helpless getting about their places with a wheelchair.

I went down to the lobby and started to wonder around. There was a building that was connected to the ‘Cancer Center’, and somehow this place was different. I heard little kids yelling, babies crying, women with round bellies walking around. It was the gynecology building. The mothers looked so happy with their recent-born child. The soft, wrinkle-free skin looked so different than what I saw just a few moments ago on my grandfather.

So that’s how it is. Humans are born, they die, and that’s the end of it. If we were animals without a soul, then once we are dead, our existence doesn’t mean anything. Sure, we can live the best life while we are alive. We can go travel the world, discover a new specie, write a breakthrough novel, and so on. But when we all die, when the end of Earth comes along, will we be remembered? Will there be a new planet with a new set of life? A New Beginning?

Photo credits: ami_Glz, knowsnotmuch, scorbette37, kalimistuk, davebluedevil

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