Nomadic Life

It is a midsummer night. I walked aimlessly through the crowds on the streets of Jongno. Before I knew it, the busy people disappeared one by one, and it was time to go home. I waited for the bus, but I couldn't remember the bus number I needed to take.

“Which bus goes to Itaewon?” I asked the person next to me. Without a word, they just shook their head. I asked another person. They didn't even answer and rushed toward a bus that was pulling up. I pressed the first four digits of my home phone number to call and ask. But I couldn't remember the rest of the numbers. I panicked. In the dark, empty night, I woke up from the dream, shivering with fear.

When I was a child, there was a tiny, dark room right next to our kitchen. It was a place where we piled up old, unused things and groceries. I hated it when the adults called me for errands, so I used to hide in there. In that little hiding place, I would read books or trace the patterns on the old wallpaper, losing myself in thoughts. One thought led to another, sinking into the deep water and then bringing another thought up to the surface. My eyes would blankly stare at one corner of the faded wallpaper, and then slowly move to the next pattern. Following those patterns, which spread out in all directions like a spiderweb, I would eventually hit a dead end where the lines broke. Trying hard to find where the pattern connected next, I would gently fall asleep.

“Go tell your grandfather it's time for dinner.” I wondered how my mother always knew I was in there.

“Grandfather, please come and have dinner.” Grandfather, wearing a silk Magoja jacket with large orange buttons, held a long pipe in his mouth. He cleared his throat and tapped the pipe against the brass ashtray. At that clear, metallic sound, everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the dining table. Grandfather sat in front of the table—set with dried seaweed, grilled croaker, and clear radish soup—and lifted his spoon. Then, as if by promise, the rest of the family lifted theirs. I thought I was finally going back to that home where my mother smelled like radish soup at dinner time, but it was just a dream.

“Strangely, New York has never appeared in my dreams.” I remember what an older friend said when they left for Korea after living in New York for about ten years. I, too, have lived in New York longer than I lived in Seoul. Yet, in my dreams, I am still rushing and waiting for a bus to go home at a station in Seoul. I always appear as an unmarried young woman, searching for my mother. My husband in the dream is just a neighborhood man, a traveler I met on the street, or a stranger who looks familiar. My two sons appear as the neighbor's children. The memories in my dreams rule my mind, leaving no room for the memories of my adult life. Is it because I miss my mother? A distant airplane disappears into the clouds, reappears, and grows smaller. Could it be a plane going to Seoul? Why do I always think of home whenever I see an airplane? If I get on that plane, I feel like I could return to the house where my mother is preparing dinner.

In the early days of my marriage, I went to my parents' house whenever things were tough. I visited often just for the fun of eating delicious food, getting plenty of rest, and receiving some pocket money. But after my mother passed away, my parents' house changed. New faces—my sister-in-law and my father’s girlfriend—acted like they owned the place. They didn't seem to want me there, as if my presence would take something away from them.

“Must be nice to have so much money,” they would complain to my father about me. My father, who found it hard enough just to take care of his own health, didn't want to deal with it. Instead, he would scold me.

“You should have married well too. Everyone is born with their own fortune. Just worry about your own life.”

My father was absolutely right. It was all my own choice and my own fault.

“I understand, Father. I will just mind my own business.”

In New York, I was counting every dollar, while those newcomers back home were spending money freely. The contrast in our lives made me feel miserable, and I felt like I no longer belonged there. So, my visits became rare. My parents' house turned into a stage for strangers where I could no longer step in, and it faded into a bitter memory.

'Home is not a place, but where the people who remember you are.'

Since my mother and father, who remembered me dearly, are no longer there, that place is no longer my home. When I long for the sights of my hometown, I will just have to look at it through high-quality internet images to comfort myself. What else can I do?

I became a mother of two children. Every sound in the world sounded like a voice calling “Mom.” I would run at the speed of light so that my children wouldn't feel sad. The children moved, made sounds, and looked straight into my eyes, searching for me, their mother. My children, pure and clear to the bone, are the greatest masterpieces I have ever created. Just looking at them gave me strength. Exclamations came out of my mouth, and my voice became soft. I felt like I had the whole world. I watched over them constantly, keeping my eyes and ears open, treating them with absolute care, worried that even a tiny scratch or scar might harm my precious masterpieces.

It was not easy to watch the struggles of my artist husband, who tried not to give up his paintbrush while working a regular job. I knew that the moment he stopped painting, our family would fall apart. So, I had to ask him to work four days a week instead of five. Like a determined addict cutting down on drugs little by little, he reduced his working days one by one, and finally, he quit his job to become a full-time artist. Every time he cut back a day of work, I felt anxious about our finances. Fortunately, he poured all the saved time into his art, and his paintings began to sell bit by bit, filling the gap in our income. My husband is neither Onassis nor Picasso, but being able to spend the whole day in his studio is his small joy as an artist.

My children grew up healthy and bright, and they flew away into the wide world. I told them they could come back and rest whenever they wanted. Like an airport runway, I waited for them in our cozy home so they could recharge and fly away safely again. After wandering the world for school and work, the children safely returned to Brooklyn's Greenpoint, where they were born and raised. Now that they are adults, they no longer need my care. What they need is their young partners and their own freedom. To maintain a good relationship with them, this old woman chose to keep a wise distance—neither too close nor too far. I realized that the best way to keep my husband and children happy in their own lives was to love myself, focus on my own work, and stay busy. Dreaming of a new life, I left the home I had fiercely built and lived in for 30 years. I moved to Manhattan.

After my husband leaves for his studio in the morning, I hold my coffee cup and stare blankly at the Hudson River. Just like tracing the wallpaper patterns in my childhood, I watch the flow of the river and let time pass by, doing absolutely nothing.

Then, in early 2020, one day: “Mom, don't go outside. You'll catch the coronavirus. Please be careful.” When they were young, my children listened to me. Now, it is time for this old woman to listen to her grown children. To avoid the virus, I strictly followed the isolation rules, only circling between my apartment and the park. Perhaps I was built for isolation, because I became even more absorbed in my work, spending productive days. To ease my worried children's minds as quickly as possible, I rushed to book a vaccine appointment.

For the first time in a year, I took the subway to a place I had never been before. Expecting a long line to get the COVID-19 vaccine, I bundled up completely. I wasn't even going far, but why did my steps feel so unsteady and anxious? After living in isolation for so long, a strange street that I couldn't walk to from home felt incredibly far away. It felt as if people and streets had all drifted far away from my home. I looked around after getting off the subway. A police officer was looking at me as if he had been waiting. When our eyes met, he spoke to me kindly.

“You're going to get the vaccine, right? Go three blocks further down this street, turn right, and go two blocks. It’s right there.”

The snow that fell a few days ago had frozen, turning the street into a sheet of ice. As I walked around looking here and there, I slipped and fell hard on my back. A young man walking behind me reached out his hand, helped me up, and supported me until the icy path ended. Did I say thank you, or did I not? I was so dazed after the sudden fall that I worried whether I had thanked him properly. Because I was acting so clumsy, I almost fell again.

I arrived at my destination. To my surprise, there was no long line. I looked around blankly, and a woman holding an iPad approached me. She scanned the barcode on my phone with her iPad. Without any waiting, I got my 'Moderna' vaccine very easily.

On the way back, the closer I got to home, the more the strength left my arms and legs, and my steps became heavy and tired. I opened the apartment door, and the warm air wrapped around me like a welcome. Why did my home look so clean and cozy today? I threw myself into the apartment as if sinking into a warm embrace.

COVID-19 passed away helplessly, as if it had finished its role. Of course, it will grow stronger and return someday. Although I never caught the virus, I lived those days with as much tension as a patient. People poured out into the streets, laughing loudly and moving again. The wave of people shook the streets. After enduring and enjoying the silence in the middle of chaos, I too ran outside. As if it were a survival anniversary, I squeezed into the gaps of the crowd and rode the wave with them. Like a nameless wild flower floating in the wind, I want to wander freely, far, far away from home, out into the world.