Grandparents' Apartment

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.