Lim Geon-sik. We used to call each other "partner." Having moved to the same neighborhood in the same year, we grew old side-by-side, sharing seven years of our lives. We laughed, walked, and ate together like lifelong friends, until he naturally became a part of my past and my present. When he passed away last March, I collapsed in a silence that words couldn't reach. Even now, the memory of our 8:00 AM "Daichi" exercises and the quiet breakfasts we shared at the 19th-hole restaurant remains a vivid, lingering afterimage in my heart.
Grief has a way of aging a person rapidly. Watching me wither, my wife gently suggested that a change of environment might lighten my spirit. We traded our two-story house with its tiring stairs for a tower-style apartment with an elevator. Our new home on the fifth floor was a place where sunlight reached deep into the rooms and windows opened wide in every direction. The moment I stepped through the door, a panoramic view unfolded before me, and a gasp of wonder escaped my lips. Life, it seemed, was still cradling the light.
On the first day of last July, we spent our first night in the new house. But joy did not stay long. Less than ten days later, we left for my son’s home to spend the summer break with our grandchildren. A month later, on the flight back, my mind unexpectedly drifted to my departed partner, and I fell asleep. When I woke, another face appeared in my mind’s eye.
Andy Bush. He is my second "partner."
He is Western, and I am Eastern. He is six years younger than I, and a full head taller. From a distance, we must look like a father and son walking together. We met in the fall of 2021 while morning strolling in Aliso Creek Park. It was one of those moments where two people recognize each other at first sight. He told me he had been a successful accountant in Bakersfield; I told him I had spent my life as a psychologist. That day, he began to carefully unpack the story of his life, and I listened without interruption. Sometimes, a person’s story flows best when met with silence rather than questions.
Since then, every Tuesday morning, we walk the same path. Five years have passed. As the seasons changed and the trees grew, our friendship developed its own rings of growth. Andy calls me his role model, saying he wants to live just like me when he reaches my age. I shake my head with a smile. "No, Andy. You are already a much deeper person than I am." To myself, I add: Every time I return from meeting him, I feel my soul has ripened by another layer.
He is a man of innate courtesy and kindness. He drives sick friends to the hospital and has visited an elderly, lonely disabled veteran every week for years. When members of his church struggle with financial or insurance issues, he works through the night to help them. For him, service is not a choice; it is his posture toward life.
He loves Korean bul-galbi. When I take him to a Korean restaurant, he insists on inviting me to a restaurant in Laguna Beach the next time. He never misses his turn. Even though I moved further away, he makes the trip every Tuesday morning without fail. After our walk, we eat at the cafeteria. "Today is my treat," he says firmly. There is a certain stubbornness in American kindness that I find quite beautiful.
Once, I forgot our appointment time. He waited in the lobby for a long while before finally calling me. I ran down, breathless with apologies. He greeted me with a smile, acting as if nothing had happened. Looking at his face, I realized: patience is not merely "enduring" or "holding back"—it is the capacity to accept the other person exactly as they are.
He is a man of profound spiritual discipline. Every morning begins with a shower and scripture. He then reads from a meditation book called Daily Word, reflecting on themes like patience, courage, wisdom, love, goodness, and compassion. Only after praying through a list of friends, acquaintances, and even those he met briefly who are now suffering, does his day truly begin.
Yet, his life has known deep valleys. Years ago, while he was immersed in his career, his wife left home, leaving behind a note and two daughters, aged seven and three. The heart of a father left behind must have felt like a deep well—where voices vanish without an echo, and the only light is a cold, crescent moon. But he did not fill that time with resentment. Raising two daughters alone for ten years, he learned how to lay down his questions and how to refuse the path of hatred.
Hardships did not stop there. After retirement, he suffered a stroke that took his memories. But like a miracle, he returned. His memory was restored, and he stepped back into the world to resume his life of service.
Occasionally, I write short pieces titled "Healing" and hand them to him. He treasures them deeply. Now, he is my partner, my mirror, and my role model. Whenever he says he wants to be like me, I pray silently: Please, let this good man stay by my side for a long time. For I am not yet ready to endure the parting of a second partner.