I used to dream that I was a descendant of the moon.
Our omma’s face beautiful and round.
Her brightness honored a cycle
unafraid of changing capacities.
Comforted by the bravery of her aloneness,
I prayed in secrecy to her each night.
Sharing with her everything but my deepest desires,
I silently wondered if she missed me too.
The yearning
in my bae
grew,
and grew,
and
grew.
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.
At twenty-two, I slept in between
our omma and unni
for the first time in our shared lives.
***
At five, I wrote a letter to Santa Claus and asked him to bring me
a sandwich and chips on Christmas day.
A small ask to nourish a big craving.
***
Together on our backs, I realized this was the sandwich I craved all along.
Our unni and I compared leg lengths like little girls, sizing up each body part just to make sure we were really a genetic match,
sisters.
The proof was stored in our shared widow’s peaks,
beauty marks,
rounded teeth I would have never squared through western orthodontics
if I would have known just how perfect our smiles already were.
Our breasts hung wide, held in the fat of our armpits.
Mons pubis’ rounded like the tombs of our ancestors.
Lower backs flattened against the ground, pressing our bums into even
flatter
pancakes. They didn’t have much rise, but they were more delicious
when paired together.
If our omma was pretty, then we were pretty too.
Our unni and I took turns complimenting her, so we too could get a taste
of self pride.
In secrecy we played.
Three women, three surnames,
temporarily housed in the quiet valleys of Cheongpyeong,
I finally craved for
nothing.
made in the streets of Seoul,
a motel, a man who looked like a
bear, our mother.
An almost abortion, cheers to water
breaking.
God’s grace she’d name me, Jo Hae-in.
Ocean I’d travel,
a name I’d lose. God too.
The grace I’d keep.
My hair stuck to my brother’s lollipop lathered face, as he held me at the Detroit International Airport.
A sweet delight for a family I’m now stuck with.
They’d call me Anne.
Recipes for Our Children 