I’ll never forget you, Onyu

Park Yeona

The author is a student at Seoul Seowon Elementary School in southern Seoul. 

I once had a Myeongju snail gifted to me by a friend. It had black spots on its shell and made cute antennae movements: One antenna would go up, and the other would go down, like the ears of a curious rabbit. It was doing well for a few weeks, exploring the plastic plants in the tank and eating lettuce and crushed eggshells. It would even hang upside down and play hide-and-seek in a rolled-up ball of lettuce.

Sometime later, I looked in the tank and saw that it was dead. It looked less like the snail I knew and more like white shampoo gel. I put it in a paper cup and buried it with the dirt you use for snail terrariums. I covered it in plastic wrap and wrote the day it died, then cried in the shower. I cried my eyes out until there were no tears left. I felt empty, except for the memories of my snail crawling around the tank. Its name was Onyu.

It wasn’t my first pet. I also had a hermit crab that died minutes after I got back from vacation. Why? Did it feel anything when it saw me for the last time? Had it been waiting for me — preserving its energy so there was enough to say goodbye?

I also had two tetra fish that lived on my desk. I always said hello and good night to them, and sometimes imagined myself hugging them. The fish loved exploring, swimming down to the crystals at the bottom of their tank and then going up and sideways, always darting back and forth. One afternoon, I found them both belly-up.

I started to wonder: Could I deal with more pets in the future? I just wish I could happily care for an animal without thinking about its death coming closer day by day. Fear of losing my beloved pet — that’s what’s keeping me from getting another one. I worried so much that my snail appeared in my dreams. Onyu crawled into my mind in a blur of colors. I woke up in the middle of the night, scared that it was dead. A few days later, my worst nightmare came true.

I love animals. I love how they make me smile and laugh. They give me a sense of purpose, the feeling that I can and should protect them. Sometimes I imagine living in a big villa in Jeju. When I open the door to this house, a dog will come bounding over. A cat will meow “hello.” Some hamsters in the background will try to escape their enclosure to greet me. Maybe some snakes will also lift their heads up, stick their tongues out and say “Sssss,” which means “Finally, you’re back!”

But how could I ever deal with their loss?

I recently came across a quote from the author Vicki Harrison: “Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn how to swim.”

So, let’s follow her advice. The first step is to get back up. Have a good drink of water and a hot shower. Smile. I know it will be hard, but it’s possible. Happiness is the best medicine. I had many happy moments, like my hermit crab crawling across my hand. My fish looking me straight in the eye like it was giving me a free fortune-telling experience. My snail playing hide-and-seek in a piece of lettuce.

That’s what you need to remember. That’s how you learn to swim.