One of the first memories of my life is touch: holding hands with my 할머니 [2]. My small and curly 고사리 손 [3] held onto her thick and bulky fingers as we walked the sunny days of Seoul. Although rough and weathered from years of labor, her hands still carried a sense of softness and warmth. 할머니 passed away a few years ago, but I vividly remember the sensation of holding her hands. So vivid, I can still feel them on the edge of my fingers.
Another early memory rushes through, and this time it is of smell, taste, and digestion. 할머니 could pull off many dishes, but my favorite of hers was 고사리 나물 [4]. I remember sitting in her kitchen, taking in the scent of perilla oil and the Gosaris she foraged with her coarse hands. My Gosari hands picked up a pair of chopsticks too big for me, reaching for the Namul. I bit into it. It was both rough and soft like my grandma. It tasted like the meat of the earth. Savory from the start, subtle sweetness seeped out as I chewed. I ate a spoonful of warm rice to balance things out. I could feel the sunlight on my back and the heat in my stomach. My belly holds this memory.
할머니 moved to the states to take care of me and my brother. The three of us lived in a big white house in a rural neighborhood in Washington. In our backyard were plum trees, wild plants, and white roses.
Without knowing English, 할머니 spent her days cooking and taking walks while we went to school. To help her adjust to this new country, I taught her how to say "Beautiful" in English. Whenever she passed by a bush of roses, she shouted to me in a thick accent, "bu-ti-pool!" I corrected her. "할머니! It's beautiful, not bu-ti-pool!" In response, she grinned so wide her gold teeth reflected the sun.
One of the things 할머니 cooked for us was 고사리 나물. Even in America, there were 고사리 growing around us. Naturally, she carried around a plastic bag and foraged them. Even though I was happy to eat 고사리 나물, my favorite dish, I was embarrassed about her foraging. It didn't feel normal in America. And I was desperate to be normal.
할머니 visited my high school once. She must have walked all the way from home during one of her foraging strolls. Because I was already so unpopular at school, I couldn't risk any more chances becoming more of a loser. I didn't want other kids to know that I was being raised by a grandmother, that she only spoke Korean, and that she spent her days picking up weird plants you aren't supposed to eat. It was probably illegal anyway.
So when she showed up and waved, I pretended like I didn't see her. I looked away, but I could still hear her. She muttered, "아는 척도 안하네" [5]. From now and then this mutter revisits my ears. My heart breaks each time.
The last time I saw 할머니 was in a cold room. We, her 직계 가족 [6], were invited to share our 안녕 [7] to her before we buried her body.
The funeral instructor uncovered a white box, and there she was, lying inside. She had lost most of her hair, and her body was pale like white stone. Her fingers were hardened and curled up like 고사리. All the fat from her puffy face was gone. She looked like a skull. Horrified, I thought, so this is what she was all along? It felt as if I didn't know her.
Next morning, at 6 a.m., a bus arrived near the funeral home, where we stayed the night. We put our bodies and 할머니's into the bus, which carried us for a few hours into the Korean countryside. Once we arrived, my brother, dad, and uncles carried the white box up a mountain. I followed. It was a cold day, so I could see my breath in the air.
After around thirty minutes, we arrived at a flat land. There, a hole was on the ground, waiting to fit a box. And like that, we buried 할머니. I collapsed to the Earth and wept.
I felt a knot inside my stomach. Curled up like 고사리, I dug into dirt.
1. 고사리 (Gosari) refers to both the species of bracken fern (Pteridium aquilinum) and the Korean dish where the fiddleheads of the ferns are dried and cooked.
2. 할머니 (할머니) means "grandmother" in Korean.
3. 고사리 손 (Gosari Hand) is a Korean metaphorical expression of a child's hands. Both children's hands and Gosaris (fiddleheads) are small and curly.
4. 나물 (Namul) is the general term in Korean cuisine for seasoned herbs and vegetables. We often eat Namuls as side dishes to eat with rice.
5. "아는 척도 안하네" roughly translate to "she's acts like she doesn't even know me".
6. 직계 가족 translates to "immediate family".
7. 안녕 is "hello" or "good bye" in Korean, depending on the context.