I have a pretty good memory, don’t I?
It’s not a question of memory, though, because it was an unforgettable day. For me, it was that kind of day. As you were leaving the house at dawn, you saw me and asked, “Mom, do you want to come?”
“Where?”
“Where your second son went to school.”
“Why? It’s not even your school.”
“There’s a funeral, Mom.”
“Well… why would I go there?”
You stared at me and were about to close the door behind you, but you came back in. I was folding your newborn niece’s diapers, and you yanked them out of my hands. “Come with me!”
“It’s almost time for breakfast. I have to make seaweed soup for your sister-in-law.”
“Will she die if she doesn’t eat seaweed soup for one day?” you asked harshly, uncharacteristically, and forced me to change my clothes. “I just want to go with you, Mom. Come on!”
I liked those words. I still remember the tone of your voice as you, a college student, told me, who had never gone near a school, to come to school with you because “I just want to go with you, Mom.”
That was the first time I saw so many people gathered like that. What was the name of that young man, who’d died after being hit by tear-gas pellets, who was only twenty years old? I asked you many times and you told me many times, but it’s hard to remember. Who was that young man who caused so many people to gather? How could there be so many people? I followed you in the funeral procession to City Hall, and I looked for you and grabbed your hand again and again, afraid I might lose you. You told me, “Mom! If we lose sight of each other, don’t walk around. Just stand still. Then we’ll be able to find each other.”
I don’t know why I didn’t remember that till now. I should have remembered it when I couldn’t get on the subway car with your father in Seoul Station.
Honey, you gave me so many good memories like that. The songs you sang as you walked along holding my hand, the sound of all those people shouting the same chant-I couldn’t understand it or follow it, but it was the first time I went to a plaza. I was proud of you for taking me there. You didn’t seem like just my daughter. You looked very different from how you were at home-you were like a fierce falcon. I felt for the first time how resolute your lips were, and how firm your voice was. My love, my daughter. Every time I went to Seoul after that, you took me out, apart from the rest of the family, to the theater or to the royal tombs. You took me to a bookstore that sold music and put headphones over my ears. I learned through you that there was a place like Kwanghwamun in this Seoul, that there was something called City Hall Plaza, that there were movies and music in this world. I thought you would live a life different from the others. Since you were the only child who was free from poverty, all I wanted was for you to be free from everything. And with that freedom, you often showed me another world, so I wanted you to be even freer. I wanted you to be so free that you would live your life for other people.
I think I’ll go now.
But, oh…
The baby looks sleepy. He’s drooling and his eyes are half closed. Now that the two older children are at school, the house is quiet. But what is this? The house is a complete mess. My goodness, I’ve never seen such a messy house. I want to tidy it up for you… but now I can’t. My daughter is drifting off as she gets the baby to sleep. Yes, you must be so tired. My baby is sleeping, curled around her baby. It’s in the middle of winter, so why are you sweating so much? My love, my daughter. Please relax your face. You’ll get wrinkles if you sleep with such a weary expression. Your youthful face is now gone. Your small, crescent-moon-like eyes have become smaller. Now, even when you smile, the cuteness of your youth is gone. Since I’ve lived to see you with wrinkles like this, I can’t say my life has been short. Still, dear, I never could have guessed that you would be living like this, with three babies. You were so different from your emotional sister, who got angry quickly and cried and got sullen and turned blue in the face if things didn’t work out her way. You created a schedule and you tried to follow it like you’d planned. When you said to me, “I didn’t know, Mom, that I would have three kids, but when I became pregnant, I had to have the baby,” you were so foreign to me. I thought your sister might be the one to have a lot of children. You never get angry. Of all my children, you are the only one who knows how to say things calmly, point by point, even to someone who is extremely angry. So that’s why I thought you would weigh whether to have a child, and have only one. You never begged for anything, unlike your sister, who threw tantrums asking for a desk like the one your brothers had. I would ask you what you were doing as you bent over the floor, and you would say, “I’m doing my math homework.” Your sister never even looked at a math book, but you were very good at it. You were the child with amazing concentration when it came to solving problems. When you came up with an answer, you would grin happily.
But you won’t be able to find the answer to why this happened to me. That’s why you must be in pain. Because of your three children, you can’t go looking for me like you want to. You can only call your sister every evening and say, “Sister, was there any news about Mom today?” My love, my daughter. Because of your children, you couldn’t look for me as much as you wanted to and couldn’t weep as much as you pleased. I couldn’t do for you as much as I wanted to recently, but I thought about you a lot when my mind was clear. About you, about how you have to raise three children, including the baby, who is just learning to walk, about your life. I felt regretful that the only thing I could do for you was to make kimchi and send some to you. My heart broke that time when you came to visit with the baby and said, with a smile, as you took your shoes off, “Oh, Mom, look, I’ve put on mismatched socks.” How busy you must be if you, who have always been so neat, can’t find the time to find a pair of matching socks. Sometimes when my mind was clear I thought of the things I had to do for you and your children. And it gave me the will to keep living… but then things turned out like this.
I want to take off these blue plastic sandals-the heels are all worn down. And my dusty summer clothes. Now I want to get away from this unkempt way I look; I can’t even recognize myself. My head feels like it’s about to crack open. Now, dear. Raise your head a bit. I want to hold you. I’m going to go now. Lie down, put your head on my lap for a little while. Rest a bit. Don’t be sad for me. I was happy so many days of my life because I had you.
Oh, you’re here.
When I went to your house in Komso, the wooden gate facing the beach was broken and the bedroom door was locked; it must have been empty for a long time. Why did you lock the bedroom like that but leave the kitchen door wide open? The ocean wind had banged the wooden door open and shut so many times that it was half shattered.