Umma, I’m Here

If you were to write about a chopstick, you would say it is a chopstick. Sometimes wooden. Metal too. Smooth. Pointy tips. Engravings at your grandma’s house.

But if you were to truly write about chopsticks, you would write about grilled pork belly, hospital beds, gochujang stains, and a warm hug from someone lost.

With chopsticks, I seized the fattiest pork belly or samgyeopsal on the grill. I examined the sears and the beautiful crispy edges.

We were seated on flat floor cushions with our legs crossed underneath the low table and the fire grill. It was a small restaurant on the south side of the small and lonely town. But at night, this was where we feasted.

I folded the pork belly into a tteok rice paper with gochujang, sangchu lettuce, and sesame oil; I prepared to devour the masterpiece. And then I heard my mother’s voice.

“Umma.” My mother lifted a spoon of rice, kimchi, and pork belly to my grandmother’s mouth. “Meog-eo.” Eat.

My grandmother opened her rosy lips and smiled as she chewed.

I stared at my own plate. Then I lifted my chopsticks. “Halmeoni.” Grandma. “Nae geosdo.” Mine too.

***

“Halmeoni.” I sat at the side of the hospital bed, watching the numbers and lines blur and beep: a language I choose to ignore.

My grandma rested in the hospital bed, sinking into cushions and blankets meant to hold her up. The dinner tray was on her lap and she gripped the chopsticks tight as if she were about to eat. But the food never touched her lips. And she won’t let anyone feed her.

I glanced at my mother collapsed on the chair across from me. The days of sleepless nights and distress have finally washed over her. For the first time in a while, she’s fast asleep.

“Annyeonghi jumuseyo.” I turned off the lights. Good night.

***

The plate slammed against the table. “Hajima.” My mother’s fury wrapped around her tongue as she spit word after word out into the world like daggers. Her face was pale and the black circles around her eyes reminded me of her everyday weeping in the closet and how she loathed America.

“She’s gone.” My father responded. “It’s not your fault. We have to move on!”

They quarrel back and forth in this language of hate and fear I could not yet comprehend.

“Fine then.” My mother shoved the table back and stood up. The water glass tipped over and spilled all over the table. The gochujang sauce splattered onto my white shirt.

I heard her footsteps pounding upstairs. I saw the pain in my father’s eyes. I looked down at the shirt with gochujang sauce, wondering when it all went wrong.

***

It’s been two years since my Halmeoni passed away. My mother returned to Korea and disappeared from my life.

But now I stand at the airport, my eyes darting for any sign of my mother. I know I remember every bit of her, but I’m scared she’s forgotten me. I press my nails into my skin and bite my lip, hoping — just hoping — that everything we had before is not lost forever.

And then, I see her. Emerging from the doors, the woman I call Mother heaves her suitcase, slowly and reluctantly, as if every step in this foreign land is prickling her skin. She looks tired, her eye bags have not left, and her cheeks are sunken.

I tremble as I raise the sign I am holding. Higher as every second passes. Higher and higher.

A tall crowd passes by me, covering my view. I raise the sign higher although all I can see are suits and rolling suitcases.

But when the people disappear, standing before me is my mother. Her eyes light up when she sees me, the way Halmeoni smiled as she ate samgyeopsal. My mother drops her suitcase and embraces me in her exhausted arms, tightly as my grandmother gripped her chopsticks. And I grin as I see her white shirt sprinkled with coffee stains.

I squeeze her tightly. Then whisper, “Did you read my sign?”

My mother lets go of my arms and looks into my eyes. She kisses my forehead. “Yes,” she says. “Umma. Na yeogiiss-eo.”

Mother. I’m here.