international love song

by Yoona Kim

[intlovesong]

Art of Waiting for Another Text

During academic semesters, having creative abilities means that you are a student with the most valuable potential. We are taught that creativity is a positive resource. We are told that we should be creative to become a civilized individual who achieves whatever to be achieved. In other words, to become significant, or successful in the industry, you must be creative.

However, after some time passes, after their girlhood has ended, women are now told not to be 'too' creative. We feel ashamed by that we wrote stories about the guys we had tindered with, texted back and forth with, and met up with for brunch/lunch/dinner the day before. Especially while we are waiting for another text to buzz us up.

Why not?

My creativity works the best when I am under stress. When I feel nervous. When I am exposed to the most vulnerability of mine. I write faster, and even more smoothly when my deadline comes up an inch away from the tip of my nose. Same with this. I make up the greatest stories of all when I want a guy to message me, when I want the guy to call me back, or when I want him to ask me out for dinner again.

My stories almost always walk on the same edge of the imaginary world.

He is at work. His boss calls him in, throwing piles and piles of paper to him, yelling and cursing, and giving him another oh-so-close deadline for the same project that he has been spending days and nights for. He has to do everything all over again. He gets so stressed, closes the door behind him, leaving the ugly boss inside, heads back to his desk, covers his face with his sweaty hands, and totally forgets that he is supposed to write me.

Or, he is on the way home. He gets a phone call. His father, or mother, or whoever in the family, is super ill. He has to fly over to Calgary, Toronto, or even back to Europe, just to visit for a day or two. He doesn’t have enough time to get a sim card, or enough mentality to click the icon and write me. He is basically out of town without any emotional preparation.

Or, he jogs on Saturday, or on Sunday. He has a park nearby his place. He does not bring his phone while working out to fully focus on the nature surrounding him. He only listens to music when jogging. He doesn’t like to get bothered. He jogs often. He does not get hit by a car often 'though. But, that day he gets hit by a car. He falls. An ambulance comes. He is picked and transferred to the nearest hospital. He does not have his ID with him. Nurses and doctors spend more time than usual to find his contact information. He is hospitalized without any sufficient information. Obviously, he can never write me anytime soon at this point.

What is wrong with being creative? Creativity gives room for women from feeling rejected, excused, forgotten. It truly gives us an opportunity to breathe and think about what should’ve rather happened. It gives us a break from resenting ourselves as if everything has happened because there is something puzzled about ourselves, in what we do, in what we say or about how we present ourselves to others. In truth, things happen because of 'him.'

A friend of mine, after some number of blind dates, told me that she finally proved herself that the problem was not herself, but the people whom she encountered in those dates. Being kind enough to think that all the guys weren't the source of the problem, she has been shooting arrows to herself. She didn't realize that this type of kindness blocked her vision to see that the guys were the ones who were twisted, didn't have a proper definition of a relationship, were lost in the past, were rude to others, just wanted to get a taste of the market of singles.

People who tell us not to be creating stories are those who do not want themselves considered to be the antagonist of the stories. And, if they understand what it really feels like, they should not make the women another protagonist of the drama by not giving them false hope. There is only one way not to be an antagonist of anyone's narratives - get out of one's story.

Hey, all the evildoers in the stories written by creative women! By stepping out, by telling us the truth behind your intentions, by revealing what you want to happen between the two of us. Women who are creative can doubtlessly face the truth. They are strong enough to do that. Look, at the end of the day, they are the ones who make waiting rather enjoyable to get their hands dirty, or heads busy, with their creativity. They will eventually open the door of their hearts to those who are 100 times more honest and considerate.

Dear women who had tried writing a story about a random dude you just met. Please never give up on your creativity. When you keep going forward with amazing stories for your sake, you will for sure find the person who would allow you to use that creativity somewhere more profitable.

And, who knows? Maybe the guy whom you are waiting for actually had had his arms broken that he’s been dying to press that 'send' button right at this moment.

[intlovesong]

A relationship is a process.

Everything about us is different. Names, appearances, cities where we were born, mother tongues are all different. Since we started having this relationship, if everything gets aligned perfectly like a set of Lego series, it cannot be a human relationship that is sound and realistic.

Having a broad range of conversational topics, digging into interests, challenging ourselves to try something new are what we have in common. As much as we like writing, we enjoy reading. We are passionate in languages. We love the sense of sharing when we learn about something cool. We are alike in this perspective. That's potentially why our first date had turned into the second one, and that had become the third, which eventually got the name, relationship.

Time passes and we have given the level of comfort that two might be destined to have, very luckily. And the time when I learn another new thing about you has finally come, too.

Something discomforting happened, you told me. At the place where you study, research and earn income, which we call a school. Something unexpected. Your voice was heavier than usual for three days straight. While listening to it on the phone, my ears, my heart, and my head had become hardened.

When I asked you what had happened, you postponed the explanation to a later time when we would face each other. I understood what you meant. I also once had this frustration in the past, pretty recently to be frank, and I wanted to dive into silence instead of explaining what was happening to people around me.

Good Morning texts were gone missing. Your morning texts were our beginning of the daily routines, especially over this long distance relationship period we had this Summer, having four hour time differences in our two cities. How busy you were, how disturbed you were could all be great reasons for you not to send - I kept telling myself and trying to understand as deeply as I could.

During the lunch hour at work, I made a phone call to you. Unpredictably, your emotions had flown to me, and I had carried this same frustration these few days. I felt unhappy about not exchanging morning texts. As soon as I made these statements on the phone, my cool-girlfriend-resolution had been crumpled like a piece of paper.

I am an introvert in this kind of situations, you said. I understand, I see, I learn this about you today; that was how I replied. The pre-assigned evening plan floated in the air. I told you that I would think about it again. We promised to talk again in a few hours, then hung up the phone.

Am I being too clingy toward this tiny change in your behavior? Am I ignoring the fact that certain exceptional situations happen in life? Am I putting too much meaning to something that's not fundamental, not crucial while your frustrating situation is something I should pay more attention to?

What would I have done?

I could have been the person who texts first in the morning. Slept well? Good morning, what are you up to today, wanna meet up later today? I could have been the person who showcases the sweet gestures before him. It is entirely reasonable that one wants to stay home without any thoughts, any plans when something happens.

Everything above is sound. I recognize that. The reason I said that I would reconsider meeting up tonight was from somewhere else.

It's only a transition period:

It takes some time to chew and swallow food. It takes time to arrive at a city, to learn how to get to places and to feel normal to face strangers on streets.

Someone like me, who has spent twenty-eight years before coming across with you, needs time to share my emotions, to slice my time for seeing you, to put energy in this relationship. I have once taken these for granted because we began dating out of a pure fact that we like each other. However, these need more time for us to process, to accept and to adapt.

How I react to words and actions is far different with how you react to them. How I solve problems and in what order I do that cannot be the same as how you do it. All I could do for you, at this time of life, is to be patient until you are ready to tell me your story and to continue living diligently. The reason it is possible is that I believe that you will come to me and explain to me when you are ready. And, when the time comes, I promise that I will have a seat right beside you, look into your eyes, hold your hands, and listen to you with all my ears and all my heart.

Evidence that this is only a process:

I haven't decided if I would see you tonight or not. I do admit that I still feel an ache in parts of my body. I still question if you could just vomit everything to me and we start brainstorming for a solution together. But I wholeheartedly know that all these chaotic overflowing emotions are the actual evidence that we are growing healthier and more beautiful in this new relationship we just started.

You must have studied Korean for an hour in the morning, and then headed out for running your daily 10 kilometers. After returning home, you must have seated yourself on a couch, with a cup of dark roast coffee, to watch the news on television. I started writing this because I couldn't articulate what I have been feeling about you, and writing has taught me so much more about myself, you and us. I am so grateful that our relationship has never stopped me from writing and this surely is another evidence that we are in this precious process as independent individuals and as a couple.

Someone has told me. That love in this generation isn't love. Yesterday you met and today you confess you love the other person; how could that possibly be love. Love is something you build over time. It has to be something you build with someone else over a longer period.

To someone, love is something you cannot get articulated. Love is something powerful that someone else generates in the middle of her/his belly that gets life going forward. While I could feel a room temperature is somewhat overheating, you might say that it's about right. You could complain that the outside temperature is too chilly when I might say that it is so refreshing.

Just like our previous days, in our tomorrows we will be using different languages and facial expressions, reactions and emotions. But I am 200% sure that we will be okay if living means going forward for better future within this premises of progression.

No, I am certainly sure what we have in this relationship together is something so much greater than whatever we have expected.

[intlovesong]

“Be careful.”

I had a day that I remembered how younger me felt, from childhood as if it was yesterday, and that those emotions hung around me for long.

I take a walk with my sister in the neighborhood as much as we can.

Since I drive to work every weekday, the handle has become much more familiar than my walking legs, and I try to walk around where I live. Every time my sister and I cross the roads, I shout out without my intention. “Be careful.”

After checking both directions for running cars, my eyes follow where my sister is. And, the sentence gets spoken even before I notice myself speaking.

She only walks after me. She follows my lead, and there's no complaint. Although I know that she is careful, and there’s no need to answer what I say, I still assure her to be careful.

Two years younger than me, she became the first grader at the same school when I was in my third. We were living in this small town, and previously I attended a smaller school, closer to my house until I was bullied and isolated by the classmates. After it had got uncontrollable, I transferred to a bigger school in the city, and that was when my sister joined me.

It was a thirty-minute bus ride from our house to the school. As a third grader, I had afternoon classes so that my sister had to travel home alone. Every morning, mom gave me coins for sister’s bus ride, telling me that it was my job take her to the nearest bus stop and got her on the bus.

There was a small bus stop as the closest, a ten-minute walk away from our school. Across the street where a five-day marketplace took place, the number 20 bus stopped, took my sister and dropped her at the beginning of a narrow road that was connected to our house. My sister was smaller to her friends and couldn’t reach to the stop button herself on the bus. I asked some neighborhood Grandmas for a favor. I asked them to press the button when the bus made a big round turn passing the rice mill on its right. It was because she had to get off the bus at the next stop after the mill. Grandmas all knew who we were and where we lived, but I asked for the same favor every day. I was afraid if they would forget.

As the bus approached us, I put the coins on my sister’s palm. I might have said few more words, possibly 'sit down if you see an empty seat' or 'hold onto the bar as firm as possible if there’s no seat available.'

When my sister started her first year at school, we had our little brother for the first time in our lives. At the bus stop, grandmas recognized us as daughters of the nurse at the community health center and asked us if our youngest sibling would be a boy or a girl. I told them it was a boy, and they had the biggest smiles ever on their faces.

Sister became the second youngest in the family when we had our baby brother. Like her sister, which was me, walking her to the bus stop every day and making sure if she got on the bus safe, began to focus full attention on the brother, I wonder what she would be feeling about the change.

Time to time, my sister punched our brother with a pillow as a means of showing her jealousy. I caught it and scolded her severely. Two years, back then, felt like a huge time difference, and I acted as if I was a grown-up compared to her.

Looking back, I was the one who should be careful. I should’ve been careful about her feelings when her heart was as soft as cotton candy. I should’ve explained patiently that you both were precious younger siblings to me, but our baby brother was the youngest so that we had to take much care of him as big sisters, as a great team.

My sister still talks about those times and smiles. She tells me that I often spent her bus money on snacks in the morning and borrowed money from friends to pay her bus ride. She remembers that my friends who got ripped off by me were fond of her.

She tells mom that I always lecture her whenever we walk across streets. Listening, mom looks at us, so contently that we get along so well as sisters and we share childhood memories.

After my sister had got on the bus heading home, I felt satisfied and proud of myself as I was walking back to class. I felt like my mission was complete. I felt that I was the person who finished a vital project flawlessly.

Even now, I get curious on where my sister heads and whom she is with at times of being alone at home. I sometimes try not to ask too many questions because she is also a grown-up who gets to have her privacy in life. However, I cannot deny how relieved I feel when I hear her keys dangle and touch our front door to come home. She’s back. She’s been careful as I’ve told her to.

My sister is so good-hearted. She was, and she has been. Adding to that, the round face of hers was a symbol of blessing to every grandma in town, and they all loved her so much. Maybe that was why I felt so proud of us being sisters when I stood in front of them asking if they could take care of her on the bus, make sure that my sister got off at the right bus stop.

Ah. It’s so much possible that it wasn’t because of me doing a great job, but it was because my sister was my sister, which made me so damn proud.

[intlovesong]

Mom’s Attention

There’s a type of concentration that only moms have for their daughters.

I’ve noticed the type of concentration that only my mom has for me.

I was telling her a story, more specifically one about my boss at work, in the irritated, upsetting voice of mine that I never revealed to others. Even while I was complaining, I knew that it wasn’t worth bringing up because I was decided to transfer to a different team within a few weeks and I wouldn’t be working with him anymore.

And, I saw the eyes of my mom’s.

Looking straight through me, she was keeping my story in her ears, carving it onto the deepest part of her heart, and carrying it in the most valuable minutes of that day.

I do talk about things that are not that important in life. Mom always listens to me talking about these things as if they are the most important things in life.

I never had a daughter or never was a mom myself; I can never find out where that intensity of her focus has come from. I really cannot figure out how she can actually carry that in her either.

At least, I’ve determined to give a quarter of the degree of concentration to my mom. To mom’s life. To mom’s life choices. To mom’s emotions, and to mom’s dreams. I will care more and more about her.

At my current age, mom had me, had a full-time job as a nurse, took care of all the chores and supported my dad in his business. She still does so much more for my family and me with the greater amount of love, care, and emotions. This is what I am so grateful to God. I am so thankful to God that I now am walking the path of faith with the most beautiful person who happens to be my mom.

In return for her love, I want to be a daughter who tells stories that make her burst with laughter and comfort.

[intlovesong]

Isn't Love all about ‘what if's?

We were in my car, stalled in the ferry, en route to Vancouver Island for a weekend, blushed and giggly about this short getaway of ours as being best friends for little over 12 years. After taking short in-between naps through gaps of times, we were full of energy. Our eyes met in the air, and we started to talk about boys. Such a typical trigger to begin a whole new world or a conversation. Girls….. Back then, I was in a long-distance relationship, and whenever I needed to deal with the topic of ‘boys,’ in general, I felt guilty. Probably that was why I kept myself being an interviewer, rather than being an interviewee. To Stephanie, love is being loyal, enduring, able to keeping vows. Undefined, I couldn’t force my conception of love to her, but I could still test her out with some of the weirdest, yet straight-forward, what-if questions. I wanted to see to what extent she could stay loyal, how much she can endure, and how forgiving she can be when her imaginary partner breaks their seemingly rock-solid promises. “What if your future partner jumps into a direct economic competition with you by opening another counseling office right next door to your counseling office?" Yes. I did begin with career. It wasn’t my pure intention, but my questions were in the order of how important each aspect of life is to me. Stephanie looked fine, at least so far. No baffling at all. As if the question was too simple to answer. "I will close down mine and get a job as a full-time counselor at different centers." Her imaginary partner clearly won in this free market. The free-market of an economy, the free market of relationships. "What if his family is heavily in debt of over a million dollars that you also need to participate in repaying after getting married." This time, Stephanie's face turned slightly more serious. It meant that I hooked her in this creative process of imagining a situation that seemed real and happen-able in her life. She followed up with a question, making sure that she was the real protagonist of this story. "Has he informed me about this, before getting married?" "Yes, he has," I clarified. "I will do it, then." She apparently didn't mind cleaving her monthly income in two with the monetary burden that her partner brought into their relationship. Money seemed to lose its original power, to me, after handing this question over to her and after she answered me that she would certainly do it with the guy as well as with his family. Of course, there are tons of other considering aspects of living as a couple and being in a relationship. But to simplify this 'what-if' exercise, I chose to throw the final question, as the third one, to shake off the core of any relationships in the world: What if your husband is a professor teaching mostly 100-level classes, with the audience of charmingly refreshing 18, 19, 20-year old female students. One day, he came home, had dinner with you, left the table for using the washroom and didn't leave his phone, but carried his phone in his palm to the restroom. It was unusual for him. Since then, he locked his phone with the quadruple passcode, unlike before, and he kept looking and typing on his screen way more than usual. It turned out that he slept with one of the students, the one you remembered seeing on campus when you visited for a surprise lunch date, unplanned and non-discussed, strikingly young and active with excessive gestures and laughs around your husband as they were walking out of the lecture hall. "What would you do?" I finally asked. Stephanie looked tentative of the idea of answering on time. She would be missing the deadline this time, for sure. I gave her few more seconds. Her face was being filled with this smile, carrying bucketful of awkwardness. Nothing to resent being in the exercise. Too late or never early enough to exit. "Is it a one-time thing? What does he say about the affair?" More questions were generated in her brain within those given minutes. "Yes. One time only. He says he doesn't have any feelings for her. You listen to him and you trust him. You see how genuinely he feels sorry for what's happened and for you. The memories of you two pass by in your vision while he is sincerely apologizing to you." I fictionalized and polished the story a bit more vividly for her to arrive at the conclusion. "Then I will forgive him." I knew that Stephanie would forgive him and try to forget what happened between her imaginary husband and the young, sexy, persuasible college student. When she told me that she would forgive him, I was disappointed by how unable she was to see that this young college student, and every bit of their history, was capable of making the relationship perishable. For me to show her that her answer didn't dishearten me, I continued the story. "After you forgave him and almost forgot what had happened between your husband and that girl, he's relocated himself in another college and seems to have no problem at all with the relationship you guys have. He is like the second-best husband ever. Obviously, he couldn't get the first place because he cheated once. But you become to know that he has been seeing her for more than few months, lying to you all the way. He finally confesses that he truly loves her, not you. What if that happens? What would do you?"   "Bye-bye," said Stephanie. She looked as if she was let down by her husband, real or fake, emotionally attacked and deeply hurt. Her love, either conceptualized or concealed, was something that would never perish unless there was another form of love that cut in. She will literally yield the right-of-way to that stupid little b**** and her stupid little motherf*****, called her husband, and let them find their way out. At the end of this conversation, I realized that it wasn't her inability to see how dangerous to trust anyone who has a history of committing something unforgivable. She is a person who tends to give another try more than just to walk away from what has happened. More than being loyal, enduring, able to keeping vows, love represents a commitment to Stephanie. Once a promise is made, she has no hesitancy in trying everything, and anything, to keep the promise as promised by being loyal, enduring and doing everything else. Until the moment. Until the moment when the unexpected third person wedges in. People used to say that the problem is almost always within. Things that bug you are the things you've created within yourselves. But in Stephanie's case, the power of love can resolve all the internal issues in a relationship. It is sometimes the external source, which we cannot control, that breaks, crumbles, and destroys us. By thinking of what-if questions and forthcoming answers to them, we are enabled to explore the possibilities and projections of love. It also allows us to put ourselves in the others' shoes, to understand them and to take their stand. I hope Stephanie, my best friend, one day finds someone and builds a life together with him that is full of loyalty, endurance, and promises that will forever be kept. I wish this guy is someone who isn't overly competitive in his profession, who isn't in an obligation of repaying a million of family debt, or who isn't easily fooled by a trick. And, most of all, I want to have that assurance that she has. The level of confidence she has in love. What if I have that in coming relationships? It will be such a different experience for me, to my future partner and that absolutely excites me. Love is truly beautiful that is worth waiting for because it is all about what-ifs.

[intlovesong]

Grandma's Memory

My sister threw a question while she was getting ready to go to bed one night. "What should we tell grandma?" I re-asked her a question, not knowing what she exactly meant by hers. "Tell her what?" "She no longer recognizes anyone, only except Go-mo." My sister, two years younger than me, and I had no idea how to initiate conversations with our grandma whose memories are being lost. Neither of us hasn't had met anyone whose memories are fading away, in person, in our lives. To me, the year of 2016 has only been the 28th of all.

'How does it feel to lose memories that were once there?' At the end of our conversation, I questioned myself. At the very moment that I just started reading <South of the Border, West of the Sun> by Haruki Murakami. That night was the first time for me to read his writing in English. Feeling like I lost all the energy in my body that I became unable to turn a single page of the book, I said, "This is too saddening." My sister smoothly changed the direction of what we were conversing about to a new song she found ear-catching earlier that day.

Grandma is in Korea. In 2002, my sister and I came first and started going to secondary school in Vancouver, Canada. My parents, a younger brother and Grandma arrived here in 2003. My parents had always been busy with the determination that they had to settle in the new land, not particularly unique compared to other immigrant families. Grandma stayed here with us for few months, mostly taking care of my little brother who then was in kindergarten and us.

Her days in Vancouver looked identical to one another. After having breakfast, mom and dad started making their way out to their sushi restaurant, my sister, brother, Grandma and I got going to school. My high school and the youngest’s elementary school were nearby. When Grandma and my brother were getting farther away from us to go to his school, my sister and I also hurried our steps toward ours. I have never imagined nor witnessed her way back home after dropping off my brother. She must’ve made sure that my brother went to his class safely, turned around and headed back home. I now wonder what it would’ve looked like to walk the same road, which she walked together with three of us before, alone.

Before his classes were finished, Grandma took herself there, waiting for him. In Vancouver, parents, grandparents, brothers or sisters must pick up their younger family members who are under 13. In Korea, in which I grew up and went to elementary school, it wasn’t a necessity. I walked 20 minutes alone to get to my piano lessons when I was only four years old. I took a bus for an hour to get to where my grandparents were living, also alone, when I was only 7. These were all impossible in Vancouver and could easily be considered as an accident or a disaster. Holding Grandma’s hands, my brother came home every day. Time to time, I was at home or a local library, chatting with friends before they made their way back home together. If it were now, I would’ve run to his school and went home with him and Grandma, talking about what happened at school. At that time, I wasn't acutely aware of that Grandma wasn’t our babysitter, but our Grandma. Back then, I did not know who she was to my family and me.

Looking back, Grandma was an oh-so-very social person. She had no hesitancy in talking to anyone who was around. In her mother-tongue, Korean, all the time. No exceptions. Usually, it was her murmuring some Korean sentences in her mouth. It was either her or another Canadian sitting right by her side who stared at me, returning to where she was taking a break in a shopping mall, with such a great smile. Some of the Canadians whom Grandma was talking to looked baffled and made eye-contact with me as if they were looking for a translator available on site. I still vividly remember how they looked, how their faces shone with a tint of smile at the end of their lips.

Having sixty years apart between Grandma and me, we used to watch television together. As a teenager, going through an emotional storm every single day, I was passionately in love with a character, or two, of some TV shows, and she used to partner up with me while watching them. When a fictionalized couple learned about each other's true dedication to love and lip-locked under the moonlight, Grandma put her hands onto her eyes, as she was avoiding the scene, with an unmistakable sound of big SIGH letting out of her mouth. Every time Grandma blocked her vision with her hands, I tried putting them down, being silly and blurring a smile on my face. Among us, the real girl was me, but Grandma seemed more like a girl, much more real than my version of a girl.

To Grandma, love was something like a set of eyes that she had to hide so that she wouldn't face anything and no one could see her.

Numerous couples got married in the way that Grandpa and Grandma became married. Compared to the current generation, the night before marriage was the day they met on a blind date, and the day they get married was the second date. It made such a logic for a couple to feel shy about each other and to feel embarrassed about oneself. It was understandable even if one kept asking oneself, out of a worry, if whatever she/he was about to do was a right thing to do, or if whatever she/he intended to do was a mistake. A feeling expressed was like crossing a line that was never allowed to get crossed. An action demanded should’ve been un-demanded; people in Korea, back in those days, called it Love.

During the short period when she was married to Grandpa, she blocked her mouth herself so that she wouldn’t express her true devotion to him. She blocked her ears so that she didn’t have to listen to all the rumors people were spreading based on Grandpa’s actions; this was how much she wanted to protect her love toward Grandpa.

When my brother was born, I was nine years old. The baby boy whom the whole family had been waiting for. To parents, he was a son. To Grandma, he was a grandson. To me, he wasn’t anything particularly special, nothing so much different with my younger sister; he was just another younger sibling. People smiled in a different way looking at him, and I wondered why. My sister was considered to be a blessing bearer, and everyone’s smiles reached her, but it did not reach me. However, I loved my brother’s being that made my Grandma so happy. He was like a human doll that I could use in a role play, and he made the most adorable face when pooping. Because I used to open all the snacks as soon as I found them whether or not I was interested in eating, Grandma used to be busy hiding them in kitchen cabinets. It didn't hurt my feelings that she hid all those snacks for my brother. I just liked when Grandma scolded me for finding the snacks and opening them. I just liked that she snatched snacks from my hands and gave away to my brother. Usually, I sat right beside my brother and ate snacks with him with a big smile while looking at Grandma.

A few weeks ago, a new female seamstress started working at the company I now work at. This Chinese lady is in her mid-50s, looking so much alike Grandma - similar height, similar face shape, similar outer appearance and a familiar vibe. Every time I passed by her sewing table, I looked back to check on her again. She is probably 25 years-or-so younger than Grandma, but looking at her strengthens the image of my Grandma, who scolded me for opening all the snacks, who watched television shows with me having this awkwardly cute smile.

I imagine that these little particles of memories lost colors and evaporate in the air through the passage of time. I can only imagine, but nothing else about the idea of losing memories. She cannot recognize my cousins who spent more time with her in Korea. She is unable to remember grandpa who passed away years ago, my dad who immigrated to Canada a few years ago, my mom who delivered my brother, a new world, to her, my sister who got all the attention for being the blessing-bearer, or even my brother who is going to College in a few months; no one can never refresh her lost memories. There is absolutely no possibility that I would make her remember all those people although I chased after her all my childhood and laughed so hard with her in those years, I would still spot her right away, run into her and give her a hug.

I will still make the loudest laugh in front of her while having her faded memories in myself. I am sure that she will smile like a little girl who's all blushy, covering her open mouth with her hands.