In Korea, I started to see 엄마 as someone other than my mom. She was a sister to her two younger brothers and a daughter to her parents. She was like me, but just older. I wondered why 엄마 rarely spoke of these people while I was growing up. Was it hard being separated from her family? Did she ever miss them? Why then did she come to America? Only much later would I find the answers to these questions.

We spent many days exploring the city, but on other days we’d lounge around at home with 할머니 Halmuni (Grandma) and 할아버지 Halabuji (Grandpa). Every morning, 할머니 would cook us breakfast and in the afternoons she’d cut us fruit. We’d pass the time watching TV and occasionally go for a walk around town. This was our life for a few months. It was almost as if we’d always lived this way.

On our last day, we cried when we said goodbye at the airport. We must have caused quite a scene because an airport employee came over to console us. His dismissive but patient tone told me he’d seen this spectacle a million times before. He reassured us that we’d be reunited again.

Our farewell was not unlike the previous trip. While 할머니 followed us to the airport, we said goodbye to 할아버지 in the lobby of the apartment. He chose to stay behind. 할아버지, who stood in the doorway, watched us with a forlorn look as we walked away with our suitcases in hand. It’s like he knew that this would be the last time he saw us. He stood there for a few moments and then he
was gone.

We stayed with my family until the end of autumn. Sometimes I would catch 할머니 crying by herself. Sometimes life proceeded as if nothing had changed. I only wished to turn back time. Wishing we could have shared one more day together.