편의점과 봉안함. The Convenience Store and the Urn

서화규 2026-09-30

추석 연휴 어느 날, 휴일 특혜로 밤늦게까지 게임을 하던 아이들과 12시가 넘어 잠자리에 들었다.

이날은 어째서인지 잠자리에 든 첫째가 죽는 것이 무섭다며 눈물을 흘렸다.

두 아이 모두 워낙 감성적이고 불안이 많아 밤마다 종종 이런저런 걱정을 했지만, 죽음을 이야기한 건 오랜만이라 무슨 일이 계기가 되었을까 의아했다.

그렇게 아이를 겨우 달래고 잠재운 뒤 잠이 들었다가 이른 아침 걸려온 전화에 깨어났다.

할아버지가 심정지 상태가 되어 심폐소생술을 하고 있는데 소생 가능성이 없다고 한다며 준비해서 병원으로 오라는 어머니의 전화였다.

내가 너무 놀라 허둥대다 사고가 날까 염려해서인지 애써 차분하게 말씀하시는 어머니의 목소리에는 미세한 떨림이 있었다.

급히 가야 한다고 생각하면서도 매일 아침처럼 빨랫감을 세탁하기 위해 세탁기에 집어넣다가 문득 정신을 차리고 가족들과 함께 병원으로 향했다.

내비게이션을 따라 이동하면서도 내가 어디로 가고 있는지 알 수 없었다.

어쩐지 아직 잠에서 깨지 않은 것만 같았다.

할아버지는 안마의자에서 일어나다 넘어지셔서 다리가 골절되어 수술을 하신 뒤 병원에 입원해 계셨다.

여러 교수님들의 도움으로 수술 후 순조롭게 회복하고 계신다고 생각했던 할아버지가 갑자기 위독해진 것이다.

우리가 도착했을 때 할아버지의 시간은 이미 멈춰 있었다.

아직은 부드러움이 남아 있는 할아버지의 손을 붙들고 무엇도 하지 못한 채 눈물만 흘렸다.

장례식장에서 할아버지를 위한 입관 예배가 거행되었다.

목사님은 할아버지가 얼마나 신실한 신도였는지, 그런 할아버지가 천국으로 인도될 것이라고 설교하셨다.

그 말씀을 들으며 한 조각의 나는 안도하고 눈물을 흘리고 있었지만, 또 다른 조각의 나는 할아버지가 교회에 얼마나 비판적이셨는지를 알기에 웃음이 났다.

그래도 하나님이 그런 할아버지를 너그러이 보살펴주시고 천국으로 인도해 주십사 기도했다.

할아버지를 모신 차가 화장장에 도착했다.

화장장은 내가 사는 곳에서 아주 가까운 곳에 있었지만, 결계라도 쳐진 듯 도무지 찾을 수 없었다.

한참 만에 도착한 화장장에는 평온한, 동시에 무거운 공기가 흘렀다.

‘내가 살아가던 공간’ 바로 옆에 ‘누군가 떠나가던 공간’이 있었다는 사실이 이질적으로 느껴졌다.

할아버지의 차례를 기다리며 대기실에 앉아 주위를 둘러보았다.

진열장에 몇 종류의 봉안함들이 전시되어 있고 아래에는 이런 문구가 있었다.

“검증된 봉안함 합리적 가격

CU 편의점으로 문의 주세요.”

주전부리를 파는 편의점에서 봉안함을 판다고?

물론 화장장 내 편의점에서 봉안함을 파는 건 편리하고 합리적인 선택일 수 있다.

결국 뭔가를 판매하는 것인데, 그 작은 공간에 매장을 두 개나 둘 필요가 있을까?

하지만 편의점 음료 냉장고 옆에 전시된 봉안함들을 보자 고인들의 죽음이 가볍게 다뤄지는 것 같아 괜스레 화가 났다.

이것도 할아버지의 갑작스러운 죽음에 놀라고 화가 나고 슬픈 나의 투사(projection)이리라. 마음을 다잡았다.

할아버지의 육신이 한 줌의 재가 되어 편의점에서 구입한 봉안함에 담겼다.

타지 않고 남은, 할아버지의 대퇴골을 고정하던 쇠붙이는 재가 되어 버린 이 유해가 다름 아닌 우리 할아버지임을 확인시켜주었다.

확인된 상실은 더 이상 숨을 곳이 없었다.

할아버지를 보내드리고 돌아온 후에도 ‘편의점과 봉안함’이 머릿속을 떠나지 않았다.

나는 왜 그것에 분노했을까? 왜 봉안함이 편의점과 분리되어 신성한 곳에서 판매되어야 한다고 믿었을까?

어쩌면 그건 죽음을 삶과 분리시키고 싶었던 나의 두려움이었을지도 모른다.

죽음을 무서워하는 아이를 달래는 엄마인 나도 사실은 죽음을 두려워하여 나의 삶의 공간으로부터 죽음을 분리해내고 싶었던 것이다.

결계가 쳐진 듯 찾기 힘들었던 화장장의 입구도 우연이 아니었을 것이다.

우리는 누구나 언젠가 모두가 죽는다는 것을 안다.

하지만 언제까지나 죽지 않을 것처럼 무언가에 집착하고 그것을 얻기 위해 서로 싸우며 살아간다.

죽음이 찾아오면 다리에 있는 쇠붙이 하나도 함께 가져가지 못하면서도.

나는 죽음을 너무 인식하고 살아가는 것도 바람직하지 않다고 믿는다.

자칫하면 허무주의에 빠지기 쉽고 도전을 피하는 좋은 변명거리가 되기 때문이다.

죽음을 잊고 사는 것도, 늘 죽음을 바라보며 사는 것도 아닌 어떤 거리가 필요한가 보다.

편의점에서 판매한 봉안함 덕분에 나는 길거리에서도 매일 죽음과 사랑하는 할아버지를 떠올릴 수 있게 되었다.

우리 가족들에게 무한한 사랑과 자부심, 그리고 안정감을 주시던 우리 할아버지.

호기심 많고 여행을 좋아하시던 우리 할아버지.

비록 할아버지의 육신은 작은 항아리에 담겼지만 그 영혼만은 자유롭게 여행하시길 바랍니다.

사랑합니다.

[The Convenience Store and the Urn]

One day during the Chuseok holiday, the children were allowed to stay up late playing games as a special holiday privilege, and we went to bed after midnight.

For some reason, my older child began to cry after getting into bed, saying that he was afraid of dying.

Both of my children are sensitive and prone to anxiety, so they often worry about one thing or another at night. But it had been a long time since either of them had talked about death, and I wondered what might have brought it on.

After finally calming him down and getting him to sleep, I fell asleep myself, only to be awakened by a phone call early the next morning.

It was my mother. My grandfather had gone into cardiac arrest and they were performing CPR, but there was no chance of resuscitating him, she said. She told me to get ready and come to the hospital.

Perhaps because she was worried that I might panic, rush out, and get into an accident, she tried hard to speak calmly. Still, there was a slight tremor in her voice.

Even as I thought I had to leave at once, I found myself putting laundry into the washing machine as I did every morning. Then I suddenly came to my senses and headed to the hospital with my family.

Even as I followed the navigation system, I could not tell where I was going.

It somehow felt as though I had not yet woken from sleep.

My grandfather had been hospitalized after falling while getting up from a massage chair, fracturing his leg, and undergoing surgery.

With the help of several doctors, I had thought that he was recovering smoothly after the operation. And then, suddenly, he was critically ill.

By the time we arrived, my grandfather’s time had already stopped.

I held his hand, which still retained some of its softness, and could do nothing but cry.

At the funeral home, a casket-closing service was held for my grandfather.

The pastor spoke about what a faithful believer my grandfather had been and preached that he would be guided into heaven.

As I listened, one part of me felt relieved and wept, while another part of me wanted to laugh because I knew just how critical my grandfather had been of the church.

Still, I prayed that God would look kindly upon such a man and guide him into heaven.

The hearse carrying my grandfather arrived at the crematorium.

The crematorium was very close to where I lived, and yet, as though some invisible barrier had been drawn around it, I simply could not find it.

When we finally arrived after searching for quite some time, the air there was peaceful and, at the same time, heavy.

It felt strange to realize that right beside “the space where I had been living my life” there had all along been “a space where someone was leaving life behind.”

As we waited for my grandfather’s turn, I sat in the waiting room and looked around.

Several kinds of cremation urns were displayed in a glass case, and below them was a sign:

“Quality-assured urns at reasonable prices

Please inquire at the CU convenience store.”

They sell cremation urns at a convenience store that sells snacks?

Of course, selling urns at a convenience store inside a crematorium could be a convenient and reasonable choice.

In the end, both are simply places that sell things, so why would there need to be two separate shops in such a small space?

And yet, when I saw the urns displayed beside the convenience store’s beverage refrigerator, I became inexplicably angry. It felt as though the deaths of the people there were being treated too lightly.

Perhaps this, too, was my projection—the projection of someone shocked, angry, and saddened by grandfather’s sudden death. I tried to collect myself.

My grandfather’s body became a handful of ashes and was placed in an urn purchased from the convenience store.

The piece of metal that had held his femur in place and had remained unburned confirmed that these ashes were, unmistakably, the remains of my grandfather.

Once the loss had been confirmed, there was nowhere left for it to hide.

Even after I had said goodbye to my grandfather and returned home, “the convenience store and the urn” would not leave my mind.

Why had it made me so angry? Why had I believed that an urn should be separated from a convenience store and sold somewhere sacred?

Perhaps it was my own fear—my wish to separate death from life.

I, the mother comforting a child who was afraid of death, was in fact afraid of death myself and wanted to keep it apart from the space in which I lived.

Perhaps even the entrance to the crematorium, so difficult to find as though hidden behind a barrier, was no coincidence.

We all know that one day we will die.

And yet we live as though we never will, clinging to things and fighting one another in order to obtain them.

Even though, when death comes, we cannot take so much as a piece of metal in our leg with us.

I do not believe that living with too much awareness of death is desirable, either.

It can easily lead us into nihilism and become a convenient excuse for avoiding challenges.

Perhaps what we need is a certain distance from death—not to live as though it did not exist, but not to live with our eyes fixed on it either.

Thanks to the urn sold at the convenience store, I can now be reminded, even while walking down the street, of death—and of my beloved grandfather—every day.

Our grandfather, who gave our family immeasurable love, pride, and a sense of security.

Our grandfather, who was endlessly curious and loved to travel.

Although your body now rests in a small urn, I hope your spirit is free to travel wherever it wishes.