[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.13 – The Red Shoes I Hid in the Dark Never Shone Again

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"They sat precariously on the very edge of the shelf, as if they were waiting for a hand to reach out and take them."


Image generated by AI by Author

Until then, I had never owned anything brand new. Everything I had was a hand-me-down from my older brothers and sisters. Then one day, Father bought me a box of crayons. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst, just holding something that was mine for the very first time.

When I slid off the transparent cover with its little handle, a neat paper box appeared inside. I opened the lid carefully, and the smooth scent of wax rose to my nose. Twenty-four brilliant colors revealed themselves—yellow, pink, purple, lime green—untouched sticks lined up in perfect rows. I couldn’t bring myself to use them. I only took them out one by one to look at them, then placed them back gently, like something sacred.

On the day we had art class, I left the house carrying the crayons in my hand. At the entrance to the school building, I set them down on the cement floor for just a moment to change my indoor shoes. When I reached out again, my fingertips touched only the cold, bare cement.

My mind went blank. The crayons had vanished.

I searched frantically through the hallways, weaving between children, but the bell rang anyway, cold and indifferent. All through class, my shoulders trembled as I tried to swallow the sobs rising in my throat.

School ended, but I couldn’t bring myself to go straight home. I had lost my crayons, and I didn’t have the courage to tell my mother. With nowhere else to go, I walked around the market once.

Shops lined the narrow street. I walked without thinking, and then suddenly, my feet stopped.

At the edge of a shoe store display, a pair of red enamel shoes caught my eye. Among the clunky sneakers and black rubber shoes, there they were—round toes and a single strap. A tiny metal buckle glinted in the afternoon sun. They sat precariously on the very edge of the shelf, as if they were waiting for a hand to reach out and take them.

When I finally went home, I lingered by the kitchen door for a long time. In the dark corner, Mother was kneading dough. She scolded me harshly for being careless, but she promised not to tell Father.

Father never found out. And I never found out who took my crayons.

After that, my walk home always took me through the market. I would pass by the shop, stealing glances at that flash of red. Every time my worn-out shoes passed that display, my eyes slid to the side on their own.

“Ah… they’re still there,” I would mutter quietly.

Then one day, neither the shopkeeper nor any passersby were in sight. It felt as if the world had briefly closed its eyes.

My hand moved before I could think.

Without even knowing what I was doing, I clutched that red ember to my chest and started to run. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was almost home when I realized—I couldn’t take the shoes inside, and I couldn’t take them back.

I turned into a back alley where people rarely walked. In a dark, damp crevice between dirt-stained wooden planks, I slid the red shoes inside. The shine of the enamel disappeared into the dust. I ran home as if I were running away from something.

I couldn’t sleep all night. What should I do tomorrow? What if someone saw me? I tossed and turned, listening to the loud, rhythmic thumping of my own heart.

At dawn, I ran back to the alley. I stopped in front of the pile of wood, caught my breath, and reached into the crevice.

It was empty.

The red ember I had hidden there was gone. I searched every inch of the place, but I found nothing.

I shoved my hollow, light hands into my pockets. I turned and walked out of the alley, one slow step at a time.

I walked home as if nothing had happened.


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.

Start from the beginning:
[Memoir Part 1] Ep.1 – I Grew Up in a One-Room Factory Overlooking the Sea

Previous:
[Memoir Part 1] Ep.12 – Smiles in the Flames: The Moments That Never Connected

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

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