It always starts the same;
as we arrive in the basement,
the cars from yesteryear —
that lilac Chevy Spark,
that silver Sonata Taxi —
parked in the same spots.
Our car
screeching against the epoxy floor comes to a rest.
As I step out,
the familiar scent of
gasoline, tyres, and bare concrete
(you know, that classic Korean garage smell)
greets me just like it did for the past 15 years.
My Mom rings unit 1108 on the intercom.
After a pause,
the door
jumps ajar,
leading us to the
dimly lit elevator hall.
As the elevator doors ping open,
I feel a ping of nostalgia.
The elevator slowly making its way up,
I stand where I stood every time
I awaited to explore
my grandparents’ apartment.
At one year old,
the ceiling of the apartment
was higher than heaven.
In the living room,
my feet dangle off a wooden chair as
my tiny hand,
guided by Grandma,
attempts to use a large brush to try and write Hanja.
Splotches of ink form thanks to my patchy calligraphy;
sunlight from the window beaming onto the paper,
dots of light reflections coalesce into
a galaxy.
I waddle into the storage room,
and I gaze up at the cave in front of me.
Wardrobes thrice the height of me,
mountains of assorted items
flank me in all directions.
The storage room only lit by a tiny window,
my pupils dilate to scan the surroundings.
At eight years old,
the ceiling of the apartment
was spacious.
Sliding away from my parents,
I sneak towards the fridge
and open the door,
revealing a treasure chest of
Banchan I don’t know the names of.
Stretching my arm upwards, tiptoeing,
I brave the cold blast of air and the tips of my hands
manage to grasp the wrapper of a chocolate coin.
My imagination runs wild in the house —
In the guest bedroom, I pretend to be a barista,
standing on the top of the bed and using
the sliding glass window as a make-shift drive-thru.
Bathtubs are oceans.
Closets are caves.
Sofas and chairs are mountains.
I’m snapped out of my daydream
when the elevator doors open again.
I bound towards the apartment,
ready to explore what it holds this time.
But —
At fifteen years old,
the ceiling of the apartment
was crawling closer.
I enter the apartment
and my head
narrowly misses the ceiling.
The storage room,
now a cramped
10 square-meter alcove.
Mountains of untouched treasures
become piles of forgotten items.
The fridge,
now a small metal box.
A trove of Banchan
Now just tupperware of leftovers.
The ceiling,
now a sun visor in my vision.
I get on top of my bed,
the same bed where I was an ex-barista years ago,
in order to move my suitcase to the corner of the room.
Inattentive to the ceiling,
my head pounds hard into it —
The shock of the impact;
The rush of blood;
The spinning in daze;
The child in me collapses.
어s transform into 네s*.
요s get added to the end of words**.
Seven days later,
I’m at the hyeon gwan
with our suitcases
(and of course, a box of kimchi)
saying goodbye to Grandma.
Turning around once more, I see the living room.
At one year-old, my eyes looked around in awe, mouth gaping and mind in wanderlust.
At eight years-old, my eyes danced with everything it saw, burning with a passion to play.
At fifteen years old, my eyes see it all, this time with no filter.
*어 is the informal version of 네, both of which translate to “yes” in English.
**요 is generally added to the end of words when speaking formally.