In her illness, Korean food was all my Polish-American mom from Jersey wanted to eat. It was all that she could bear.
Adoption is one of those forks in the road where many of us try to glimpse through the trees to the other path, the other world.
My kids have been kicked out of many, many places for being different—just like I was.
I never would have come to Korean if not for my adoption. The language pulled me back to it, despite the decades, cultures, and continents between us.
I whisper to my great-grandmother a burden I’d like lifted, one she might take to the next world with her.
We were so worried about surviving that we’d forgotten to show him even little ways to live.
I was thin-skinned as a child, with an ego that could put bruised peaches to shame.
I promised myself I would not threaten, shame, or scare my daughter into compliance. I kept that promise.
I’m stockpiling sweaters because they signify refuge, collecting them like talismans though grief cannot be avoided.
“I want him to stay as sweet and soft and cute as he is now. He is my baby boy.”