On rare occasions, I convince myself I am capable of enjoying connections with approaching expiration dates. With such limited time,

there is an uncomfortable pressure to eat more quickly than what my gut typically allows. Nevertheless,

I find myself perennially tempted by high cheekbones, delicate noses, and persons with fainter body scents.

Together, there is an ease of attraction, a space for our softer features to come into higher definition. We eagerly wrap our legs around each other in an attempt to recover our losses. Consummating a beauty that has always been, we find compatible lenses to better capture our light.

***

I barely had to time to finish my pasta before our night perished

and turned to morning. He said,

we made love. I offered a faint smile,

quietly wondering if he felt mother in me in the way that I felt mother in him.

I reflexively turned down his offer to drive me home and

took the el back to the north side.

Before we parted, I gave him a gentle kiss and made sure that I watched him as he walked away.

Finding a seat on the blue line headed towards O’Hare, I was quickly lulled to sleep by the sway of familiar tracks. There, in the hum of my subconscious, I found myself greeted by a forgotten past.

***

It was the summer of 2017.

I had just said goodbye to our omma for the second time,

our unni and dongsaeng for the first.

It was unclear if we’d ever meet again, but it seemed important that I didn’t leave empty

handed.

Before boarding the subway back to Seoul-yeok,

we exchanged hugs that felt too short for the longing that had already begun to sink in.

They passed me a white styrofoam cooler to keep me company on my journey back to Seoul and told me to go.

가.

I found myself to a window seat and

waved to them, forcing a smile to seal our time.

I didn’t have the courage to continue to lock eyes with them on the platform

as we pulled away. I instead rode forward in silence.

Safely wedging the gifted cooler between my feet, I tried my best to keep my new companion steady.

Like close friends, my temperature began to drop to slowly match hers.

Heart slowed, anguish stored in its depths to be heard at a later time.

I was lucky that our Styrofoam box was gifted the ability to squeak.

On our ride back to Seoul, she bravely sang to me, her cries giving voice to all I could not.

***

As I returned to that unmemorable rented room, I briefly contemplated whether or not to open

her.

We had become so quickly acquainted and I was afraid to lose her too.

Calculating my losses, I concluded that the worst had already happened.

Using a wooden chopstick, I opened her at her belly finding

six pint size bags of omma’s banchan carefully nested inside.

Perishable heirlooms safely stored in plastics that will likely never decompose. I shook my head at the absurdity of it all.

Using my hands to dig into the seasoned rice cakes,

tears streamed down my face as I ate.

Moments to savor amidst a life time of separation; I’ve never eaten anything

so

slow.

I ate well, omma.

감사해요.