And you came to me on a summer breeze.

It was my own self-proclaimed "last day" of SCKY, and as I sat in the pew feeling weighted down by a lugubrious heart, I remember thinking, "Damn. I've never realized how musty it smells in here." Fifteen years after attending mass in the same church, with the same people, the smell wafted into my nose. I closed my eyes and let myself breathe in the must; that same scent that I had smelled (almost) every Sunday for fifteen years.

For that fifty minute duration I let my greedy eyes drink in the details I'd never noticed before. The unbelievably, resiliently shiny pews, the cracks in plastic of the kneelers, the dust collecting in the holes of the envelope holder.

"Peace be with you. And also with you." I waited, just for a small millisecond before turning around. I had to mentally prepare myself for the last time I would shake hands and wish peace to these people that I had spent fifteen years of my life with. I felt my tiny eyes smiling almost as hard as my mouth, momentarily distorting and blurring the faces around me. I felt my thoroughly Asian, almond shaped eyes turn into the half moons that trick 99% of people into believing I'm incredibly happy; when ironically those half moons mean that I'm trying my hardest not to wail in despair.

"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit." And just like that, my last mass. At St. Christopher anyways. As the final strains of the organ and choir wafted down, amidst the impatient shuffling that indicated everyone's restlessness--I remember feeling incredibly lonely. After seeing and knowing these people for fifteen years of my life, I remember feeling lost and terribly alone. How could I possibly feel so alone amongst over a hundred other Korean Catholics? After all, aren't those two things that I always use to define who I am? How could I possibly not feel attached to any of these people?

In the short walk across the street to get from the main church to the hwe-gan I realized exactly how melancholy I was making myself. It was my own choice to leave, why the ridiculously heavy heart? Why the dramatic "this is the last time I'll ever..." thoughts?

***

The small handful of kids that come out every week-- the ones that I had come back for every weekend (and then some) for a year and a half; stood around on the newly renovated wood floors laughing, teasing, in some cases, dancing. Doing exactly what they had been doing, being exactly who they were for the past year and a half. I'd made the decision to leave without announcing it to the kids because selfishly, I wanted to remember the kids exactly as they were. No trumpets and fanfare, no confused questions, no guilt trips. I wanted to remember them smiling and dancing, teasing and wrestling; on those new wood floors, in the room still carrying the pronounced smell of new paint, being those same high school kids that changed my life.

The whole two hours that I had with them, I made sure to be exactly who I was to them for the past two years. I made sure to tell them one more joke, tease them one more time; I let them make fun of me like they always did. Even if they didn't realize it, I was giving them 110% of me that last day. When the kids started leaving, I made it a personal mission to hug them a little tighter, tell them to study a little harder; and to every single kid I said goodbye to I made sure to say, "I miss you already" (in singular inconspicuous ways of course).

***

Going 80mph on the freeway, with the windows rolled down, and my iPod blasting full volume; I cried all the way home. Fat droplets that turned into unforgiving rivers that turned into an angry ocean between the hollow of my breasts. Silently dripping tears that transformed into wracking sobs. I'm still not sure how I got home in one piece that day.

***

The ups and downs I went through during that year and a half are beyond comprehension. During that time though I indubitably learned things about myself that I would never even have fathomed. For one thing, I really tested the lengths of my patience. For another thing, I realized that I literally would do anything to protect some of these kids from the ugly consequences of life. It was almost like a sick obsession that kept me coming back week after week.

For the first three weeks after I quit, every Sunday at 7:30am, I would wake up and feel this inconceivable sense of hollowness. In those first three weeks, I went into post-partum depression (or, what I imagine is something like it); because as much as the kids were my babies, the entity of SCKY itself was my baby as well. For two years I'd willingly sacrificed every weekend for this position that was thankless and difficult as hell; for these people who treated me as less than a human being; for this thing that made me feel miserable 90% of the time I was doing it.

I remember jokingly fighting over "my boyfriend SCKY" with Regina two years ago. Considering the way that it affected me (and how!) and influenced so many aspects of my life, I really do feel like it turned into a boyfriend. I spent every weekend with it; I cried way more tears over it then it deserved; I gave it my heart, only to have it stomped on repeatedly; I gave it my soul, only to have it wrung and squeezed and exhausted.

After everything though, it saved my life.
For a long time before that I remember how detached I was.
The emotional detachment I feel now, is only a defense mechanism that I've consciously been using to deny my real feelings.

Two years ago though, I truly was detached from life.
I wanted nothing.
I had no ambition, no hope, no emotion.
I was dead inside and I didn't know how to bring myself back to life.

Deciding to do SCKY that summer before my first year didn't seem like a big deal.
Just another way to pass the time, I thought.

Who knew, that two years later I would be this person?

Perverse, twisted and sick as it is, if I could save it, I would go back.
SCKY saved my life.
I want to save SCKY.