In those days of pain and disease, the only things she found meaningful were prayer and copying Bible verses. I’m sure this was how she truly felt. She did not look in the mirror or ever call anyone, she just wrote down letter after letter in diligent silence. I read this as her protest against my inability to stop my vice (namely, homosexuality), her resistance against this absurd cancer that had been inflicted upon her despite her lifelong diligence, her testimony of passion for life itself—all of these things mixed together in a kind of letter of complaint to the divine absolute. In the end, I could not talk to her about him, or about the photograph. I couldn’t talk to her about anything at all.

◊

I couldn’t get a hold of him on Sunday.

His phone was off and there was no answer to my text messages.

Umma and I took a walk by the reservoir, just the two of us.

I looked behind me several times. Of course he wasn’t there.

Our walk that day was short.

◊

I got a text from him four days later. Something bad had happened to a hyung he was close to, and he couldn’t pick up the phone. He said the word “sorry” like an afterthought, as if placing a sprig of parsley on a plate as a garnish.

Some hyung he had never mentioned before. Something bad happening.

Sure. That definitely happened. Something bad. And you were busy.

I didn’t get angry at him. We carried on our conversation as if nothing had happened. Just like all the times before.

◊

Umma’s cancer was declared to be in remission after a year and a half of treatment. Her doctor declared it a triumph of persistent and effective therapy based on state-of-the-art medical technology. I declared it a triumph of dedicated and selfless nursing on my part. Umma declared it a miracle sent to her directly from God.

Four days before she was discharged, he came for the first and last time to our house. I had decided to cook him a meal in our own kitchen since he found being together with me outside so uncomfortable. The prospect of a visit from him in broad daylight excited me. To watch him eat a meal I cooked with my own hands, in the place where I grew up! He arrived exactly on time, calmly laid down his backpack near the entrance, and daintily stepped into the house in incontrovertible “polite guest” mode, calling out the customary “Please excuse me.” Glancing around the living room he added, “You have a lovely home.” The first thing he did after this ceremony was to go straight into my room and look carefully at the spine of every one of my books on the shelf like he was an archivist at the National Library. He sat on my bed. What a sensation to see him sitting on my own bed! I felt so happy, I was walking on air. I took off my socks and crept toward him over my own duvet that had the scent of my own body, seeking a kiss from his lips. He turned his head slightly, pointed at the duvet, which happened to have a Michiko London duvet cover, and began to scold me.