Miles & Memories

Ch.2 - The Postcards

For three days after aunt Rose's death my father stayed in the house. My mother took the Sauui, or burial dress, to the funeral home. It was made of real silk, delicately embroidered with flowers and tiny bits of vine. I ran it through my fingers, the cool smooth texture slick until the embroidery thread, like tiny bumpy roadblocks, would stop my finger along the way. The silk was white, with the trim in jade green looked like something Aunt Rose would wear which gave me comfort.

Each friend and relative was sent a notice of her death and details of the service. We busied ourselves with details, and preparing our clothes, or Sangbok, for the service. Mine was prepared too large so that I could wear it a year from now at the memorial Sosang. I pouted of course. About dressing traditional, and about the size of it. Positive I wouldn't be wearing it again next year. By then, I had assured myself, we would be completely American and we would all be living in California spending long days on the beach.

My father never left the inside of the house. Those three days he never saw the sun, his koi, or even ventured out the door for work.  On the first day I stayed inside as well, studying him, waiting for something magical to happen. By the second day I went outside in the yard by the pond. My mind was restless and my skin itching for freedom. I looked for the crane, perhaps hoping it would come back and tell me it had made the journey and delivered Aunt Rose. I spoke to the fish, just in case they noticed my father's absence, and told them of his crane dance, and his brave Knight like saving of their lives.

When I found myself unamused by floating fins and tiny o shaped mouths which never spoke to me or seemed the least bit interested that I existed at all I walked back over to the very spot the dance occurred. Inspecting it for any leftover proof that it had happened at all. The grass was bent and muddy, but nothing there told the story of what had been my first bout of awe from the universe.

I told my father I had checked on his fish. And that I spoke to them on his behalf. It was the first time he looked at me and made me feel he saw me. I expected him to nod or bow, but instead his arms reached out and he hugged me. My muscles stiffened involuntarily. We weren't those people, the warm hugging crying sort. The axis of my foundation shifted a bit to the left as I felt his warm breath move my hair. It was solid there, in the middle of a hug.

The third day I ventured deeper in the yard and sat in my car. The keys had been confiscated, as I was far too young to drive but I felt ownership just the same. I started my exploring with looking under the seats, worn  and faded from being under the hot carport. Small spidery cracks dulled the once shiny white upholstery making pattern like pictures that got larger when I pushed them.

The smell of those baked leather seats permeated the inside and I didn't dare crack the windows for fear of losing a single bit of it. As my hair stuck to my forehead and sweat trickled beneath my cotton shirt I relished each hidden receipt and stray pen. Putting mental pictures of aunt Rose's possible uses for these items in my mind and creating a picture.

When I had collected every discarded straw and nothing was left under the seats but some stray hair and a few bits of dirt, I opened the glovebox. It was crammed with papers and books and I sucked in my breath as I removed them one by one.

At the top of the neatly stacked pile was a book on my car. Explanations of buttons and how to's on radio dials and gas caps. I tucked it safely on the seat beside me to put back. I told myself I'd read it, cover to cover, but not today. Under the book was a tattered bundle of post cards bound in twine and slightly yellowed with age. I lifted them to my nose and found no new comfort in the scent as it was just the same as the car interior.

My fingers nimbly removed the twine so I could see the face of the card. A bamboo umbrella in red surrounded by pale pink flowers. The writing on the front said 'Friendship' in bold black Korean Symbols. On the other side was rows of words in the same rigid style. As I read I felt a tingling rise in my center and spread warmly to my fingertips brushing the words.

"I am well. I went to the White Hall this week. I will go there again someday and take you with me. We will watch the sun rise and set and it will be like the first time, because with you everything is new. Soon, yobo, we will watch many Suns rise together."

The air in the car grew thick and I looked around for evidence that I was awake and not dreaming. The card was addressed to aunt Rose. I had no knowledge of Rose ever having been married, or dating, or being loved. To me she had always been old and sickly. My father's younger sister who always seemed a hundred years older than him. More a grandmother in my life than an aunt.

I glanced at the stack of now unbound cards. Each of them written in black and each front a picture or phrase in traditional Korean. My thoughts began to spin in my head. Aunt Rose had lived and loved and never mentioned it in my entire lifetime. Questions came and went and I let them, giving each one time to sort itself. I put the umbrella card on the bottom of the pile and placed them all still unbound, back in the glovebox. One a day, until the end of summer or they were gone. That's how I would read them. Because it was delicious, this knowledge. And I would make it last.

Slowly and reluctantly my feet carried me back to the house, away from a secret. It felt wild and wonderful to have such a thing and I wanted to keep that adventure for myself as long as I could despite the small rough pebble of guilt that had already begun to form. It was my father's sister, and somehow I felt as if I were stealing from him. But it was new, and mine, and I told myself I could share them anytime. The risk of being called a child again and having them taken was too great. I would wait until I was done.

Inside the house I immediately felt the cool of the air conditioning swirl around my skin drying up the beads of traveling sweat. My father was there, standing in the middle of the family room, his stocking feet buried beneath the soft plush beige carpet where I used to sit for Korean lessons while aunt Rose did her sewing . I could see the outlines of the steps where he had paced. His head turned toward me and his face met mine. He raised his thin black brows at my red face and damp hair with a questioning look. "Where were you?"

"In my car papa, I'm growing up you know."

His smile started as a slow curl around the edges of his upper lip and soon spread to his whole face as he said "I know, soon that car will be taking you away from me."

My head bowed and for the send time in two days I slowly walked into his opening arms. They felt strong and safe and my cheek rested against the cool soft cotton of his pressed shirt. My mind had already started to imagine that day, my pink Cadillac pulling out of the driveway and towards the future me. Away from culture, and koi, and free to be whoever I wanted. I wondered, right there in that moment, if I'd have anyone's arms around me then.

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I almost hated to carry on past chapter one. It seemed to be so well received. But, this story is more than mine, and young Kim needs to find her way. Thank you for reading chapter 2. Feel free to share any thoughts.