Leave Room For Air

I still text my mom: I'm going to watch Minari with a friend for the fifth time this summer. Each time, their grandma makes me think about mine: her special kimchi—red, pungent, sweet; her decade-sealed tears at the sight of her daughter.

At midnight, I whisper to Calmbait—the green beanie baby on my desk—
“can I open the glass jar?” The lid exhales with a soft breath of garlic
and gochugaru, loosening the room’s throat. On the screen,
the red tractor stutters across the green field; in my head, I am counting futures like figs:
branch after branch of almosts.

I tell my first I can’t tie the burnt-sienna tie she gave me; double Windsor knot (YouTube at 1.25x): four-in-hand. My fingers misread the loop
the tail comes up wrong. It's like trying to make a promise
I never learned the word for.

My anchor says it’s okay to be alone, too. She means: let the ride go. She means: understand, even if it means relearning my first language. She means: do what I want. I can’t, I tell her— even though I meant: I like you.

Sunday, before sunrise, I pray with my pastor through my door. My mom stands still behind the door, silent as my prayers. Please forgive me for what I’ll do again— the jar loosens; I tighten the lid.

Sunday, after sunrise, I tell my mom I choose God over him. The house shakes as my grandpa shuffles above me, as the fridge with Grandma's kimchi hums. I don’t say who "him" is. Some days, it’s the boy; the bottle. Other days, my father, myself.

It’s funny—
how I write “American Dream” like it’s an SKU on a receipt and then spend the whole day trying to return it: store credit only.

I still price used red tractors online,
still imagine a green hillside in Arkansas
with grandma’s minari by my side.

It’s funny—
how our barn, burning,
pulled me closer to my family
more than God ever could.

Dear Halmeoni, I write to understand you because I don’t know your daughter's tongue well enough, the meaning of your saying—“Be nice to your mom and dad.”

At Incheon, we pressed palms to that cold glass divider— your side bright as a duty-free display, my side all passports and TSA trays. I waved goodbye like a child as if I’d be back to eat your kimchi again.

We keep rinsing, but the red refuses to wash away; it only lightens, like that ephemeral blaze at sunrise.

On KakaoTalk, you rarely call. Whenever we visit, you slip me bank-crisp bills, never folded. I try to form a sentence, but I can’t— I never learned yours.

Now I practice: I put the consonant and vowel together to form the syllable block, the way I mix your gochugaru and cabbage to make your kimchi; how fermentation is not embalming but a new taste: given time, even the sour turns sweet.

It’s funny— how each generation kneels to God for forgiveness yet still suffers the same sins;

Tonight, I do not ask to be lacquered, labeled, laminated. Pack the jar. Thumb the lid. Leave room for air. Let this life fizz. Let it breathe its CO₂ bubbles I can’t predict. If it explodes, let the kitchen carry that red-gochugaru bloom, and let us eat what’s left, together, over rice.