[Memoir Part 1] Ep.14 – The Reason I Kept Taking the Long Way Around

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"There were things I wanted too much, and things I did not have the courage to return. So I kept taking the long way around." Image generated by AI by Author In science class, the teacher told us to bring milk for an iodine experiment. I asked Father for the money, but he waved it off. “Go to your eldest cousin’s shop. Tell his wife, and she’ll give you a bottle.” My steps felt heavy on the way there. No matter how much I searched my pockets, I couldn’t find a single coin. At the shop in the lower village, my cousin’s wife was always there, standing behind the counter with her baby tied to her back. I lingered at the entrance for a long time before I finally stepped inside and stammered my request. She went to the back of the shop and brought out a glass bottle of milk. “Make sure you bring the empty bottle back,” she said more than once. I gave a small nod. I had to return it. One day passed, then two. I kept telling myself I would take it back soon. But by the end of a wee...
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[Memoir Part 1] Ep.8 – The Weight My Sister Carried

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"Her laughter seemed to warm the room, 
flickering like the filament inside the bulb."
Image generated by AI by Author

In the spring sunlight pouring over the road, swallows darted like arrowheads, skimming the ground in a sharp curve before sweeping off into the distance. I would stop in my tracks, frozen, afraid one might fly straight at me.

That was the spring the swallows returned, the year my sister, eight years my senior, entered high school. She would often set a small, plastic-framed square mirror precariously on the window ledge and stand before it, smoothing her blunt bob. Pulling a black hairpin from her temple and sliding it back into place, she would hold her own gaze in the mirror for a long time.

She had a single pair of deep navy jeans, passed down from a cousin. Even when she washed them and left them to dry overnight, they were almost always still damp by morning. She would lie awake, turning over and over, reaching out to touch the denim hanging beside her.

When morning came, she forced herself into clothes that were still damp.

She twisted her body each time the stiff, cold fabric brushed her skin. Then she stepped into the middle of the room and began to sway. She said she was practicing the mambo everyone was talking about, her feet tapping the floor.

“Was it like this? No—like this.”

Each time she doubled over with laughter, her bobbed hair, cut sharp below her ears, bounced with her laughter. Under the narrow, low ceiling, her movements grew larger. I held my breath, afraid she might strike the dangling yellow bulb. Her laughter seemed to brighten the room, flickering like the thin filament inside it.

Mother held the mirror high, scooping gurimu (cold cream) from a round jar and spreading it over her face. Beneath the dim ceiling, a greasy sheen spread across her cheekbones.

Without looking away from the mirror, she tilted her chin toward the yard and said,

“You two. Go fetch some water.”

In the corner of the yard stood a rust-colored rubber drum with its lid pressed tightly shut. When I lifted it, a damp, rubbery smell rose from inside. I stood on my toes and looked in. A thin sliver of light touched the dark bottom. There was barely any water left.

My sister shot a look toward my older brother, leaning against the wall, lost in a comic book. Mother, still rubbing cream into her skin, said,

“Leave him. He’s got no strength. Just go.”

My sister stripped out of her precious jeans and changed into old purple gym pants, the knees faded almost white. She took a short breath and lifted the jige—a wooden A-frame carrier—from beside the kitchen door, then picked up the buckets. I grabbed a metal basin and followed close behind, cradling it in both arms.

As we went down the slope, the buckets clanked against the hooks, breaking the silence.

By the communal tap, a crowd had already gathered, rows of empty buckets lined up, waiting their turn. The village women stood close together, talking in low voices. I never saw Mother among them.

My sister stood there, gripping the wooden frame. Slowly, our buckets moved forward. When it was finally our turn, she pushed the buckets under the spout and held them there as the water poured in.

When the buckets were full, she hung one on each end of the yoke and slowly straightened. Her body swayed under the sudden weight. The wooden carrier creaked with every step, and water spilled over the edges. I followed behind her with a metal basin balanced on my head, walking carefully so I wouldn’t stumble.

A group of boys her age passed by, laughing loudly. A flush crept up my sister’s neck. She lowered her head and quickened her steps. Suddenly she rushed ahead, climbing the steep path. Water sloshed over the rims and soaked her pants, but she didn’t stop.

The moment we reached home, she dropped the buckets with a heavy clatter and bolted inside.

“I’m done! I’m never doing this again!”

The door slammed. Mother clicked her tongue and stepped out, slipping into her rubber slippers.

“It’s nothing. Don’t make a fuss.”

She gripped the handle and tipped the bucket. 

With a heavy splash, clear water poured in, and the dark, hollow bottom of the drum was slowly swallowed by the light.



Read this story in Korean (한국어 버전 읽기)

About this series:
These stories are part of my childhood memoir about growing up poor in 1970s South Korea.
Thank you for reading.

Keep Reading the Journey.

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