third year julia mun

It is almost October 30th, and I’m thinking of you again. When I was younger, I thought you were a slab of rock, surrounded by a meager collection of lonesome flowers. My dad would always nudge me, “Say hi to halmuni,” before crouching down and sweeping away stray leaves. I would think Hello? in my head and stare down at my mother, who would crouch next to my dad to place our flowers next to your name. My sister would look off into the distance, staring at the open field punctuated by silent figures, their heads bowed down to the ground as if the sky weighed on them too. I always associate this scene with you. This is who you were to me at first— an absence weighted by a gravestone.

This was when we lived in New Mexico. Even though I’m no longer there, I still feel like I should gather with my family underneath that heavy sky with a bouquet of flowers in my hands. When my friends talk about their grandmothers, I wonder what my life could have been like with you. Would we be close? Would we have conflict? I can’t decide because I only hear about you in stories. You have the dimensions of someone I should know, yet I can barely construct you in my head. But maybe that’s what we all are to each other - bouquets of moments we choose to keep and give.

So, I cling to every mention of you. Which is difficult, because no one talks about you. But my mom always talked about how you were there to help take care of my sister. You flew to Oklahoma immediately when she was born. You would lay her on her back and rub lotion in her arms. You would watch her sleep in the crib. You exist in my sister.

My dad was the youngest of his siblings. You would baby him, even when he was much older. When he slipped away from dinner to go meet his friends, you would chase him around town with a spoonful of rice, demanding he finish the last bite. My dad may not chase me around, but he always makes sure I get one more bite before I leave the table. You exist in him.

Only recently did I learn another story about you. When you first moved to the United States, you would work long hours to make a living for my dad and his brother. Your hands would crack from all of the labor as you tried to make meals last for days. I cannot imagine the sacrifices you made for my family and for me. You exist in me.

Our lives did not coincide, but we certainly share one history. I may not know you, but you are a part of me. I’m sorry I can’t make it to New Mexico this year, but here is my bouquet to you. 감사합니다, 할머니.

The Bouquet