할머니
(Grandma; Harmony)
written by: Lily Kwak
Her maroon cardigan always
smells of flour and chocolate,
a hint of perfume and dense spice,
the kind that makes my eyes water.
We have the same smile, laugh, cry,
the same philtrum and dimples and
plump cheeks and tiny nose that
crinkles up in the presence of Gouda.
But, her uneven shoulders slouch
from tireless nights, long days
of worry for the people she left behind,
whose names are written
in tears on her pillow
every night: to never forget.
The tongue of her mother
she left in the North, those with whom
she shared warm blood, a heart,
whole dreams of family.
At sixteen, she walked alone.
She walked
past Namsan and Kuwolsan,
wilting peaks, fallen homes,
fractured trees and barren fields.
Now, the shadows sketched under her
brown marble eyes reach out to me
with broad eyelash arms,
pulling me close for an embrace.
We are one, but different
in the air our nostrils have carried,
hers of broken lands
and fragmented memories,
mine of tulips and harmonious songs.
When I brush her hair,
she sheds more thoughts than strands.
Ill, they say,
Alzheimer’s, confused, lost –
I say free.
