Father's Day

In his final days, although he was happy to be in America, where his grandchildren were born, my father teared up once while talking about his ancestors. "I want to see my grandpa," he whispered to me. When he missed his grandpa, his old face took on a child's innocence.

I have known my great-grandpa only in faded brown family photographs.

Although I do not have an exact map of the Ahn family tomb site, I know the exact location of it by the name of my great-grandfather's tomb.

The address of the place is long, like a beautiful song: Nam-Chuk, Chil-Song-Bong, Che-Koong-Dong, Yong-Koong-Ri, Pu-San-Myun, Tae-Dong-Kun, Pyung-An-Nam-Do.

Even in rough translation, the meaning of that long address is surrealistically poetic.

South Side, Seven Star Peak Mountain, Imperial Castle Village, Dragon Palace Area, Giant Kiln District, Big River County, South Province of Peace and Tranquility.

The place is not far from Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea.

In our family genealogy book, this lengthy name of the place of our family tomb seems simple when compared with complex family creeds such as filial duty.

My father was the 29th-generation descendant of the first son of a first son. The burden of being the first son is heavy in traditional Korean families. First sons, among other things, are supposed to take care of ancestors' tombs. (Lucky for me, my brother came into the world two years before I did.)

That day, as we approached the cemetery in Glendale, I wondered whether my brother was intentionally driving slowly, as if we were in a funeral procession. The plastic cup of dirt that I carried in my pocket felt like a bottle of sacred spice.

At our father's grave, my brother carefully opened the cup and spread North Korean soil with two fingers, as if handling gold powder. He said something like, "Dad, now you are covered by home soil . . ."

Then I stopped hearing my brother's murmuring, as tears began raining down my cheeks.

"Dust to dust."

Nobody was around us, and I did not need to worry about composure and posture for family dignity.

I wept openly.

"Dad, you are at home now. You are covered with home soil. But you rest in peace, in real peace, because I know that you are with the sweet smell of California soil."

The writer is director of the Korean service ofRadio Free Asia. He retired from The Post in 1996 after 26 years.