Shadows
By: Taeri Kim
Night
“Good night. Good night mom, good night. Good night. Good night.” I tie a ribbon of words around my mother’s wrist and let it unfurl in my mouth as I make my way to the door. It is too short, I have run out. “Good night, good night,” I add hurriedly; with this I make it to my bed. I turn the words around in my tongue, the guttural ‘g’s and the soft plosive ‘t’s lull me to sleep. In my dream, I prance around like a gymnast leaping and twirling, the ribbon of ‘good night’s extending forever in an intricate pattern connecting me to her. In the distance my mother also prances, the ribbon moving her. Her limbs bounce weightlessly, without intention. Then I see, she is tied around her neck, a tight noose stringing her along like a fish on a hook with every one of my words. A siren sings in the distance, and she swings down like a pendulum with each note.
I rush back down the stairs, past the kitchen, into my mom’s room. To my surprise, she is laying perfectly fine in her bed.
“Good night, mom. Good night. Good night. Good night.”
She sighs a little, barely masking her annoyance. “Okay. You too.”
Satisfied, I hold her warm hands for a second, wish her a good night's sleep, and prance out of her room once more.
Oopsie
Me, 2018
Grandmother, 1942
It started off with the smallest mistake.
It started off with the smallest mistake.
I was so caught up in watching my favorite show that I had forgotten my mom’s request to vacuum my room.
I was so caught up reading my favorite magazine that I had forgotten to put the jjigae on the stove.
By the time she came back and spotted the floor still covered in dust, her face fell flat.
By the time she came back and spotted the soup gone sour, her face fell flat.
“Did you clean your room yet?” she yelled.
“너 찌개 불에 올려놨어 안 놨어?”[1] she whispered.
I made the most foolish response, “Oopsie.”
“Oopsie.”
“I told you to do it! You said you’d do it! You never do as I say! I can’t live like this, with a daughter who treats me this way! Maybe you just want me gone. You’ll be better off without me.”
“That means we don’t have any food… I’ll go get some food for us.”
Each word latched itself onto the bottom of my heart and suffocated me.
I wanted to apologize and tell her it wasn’t true, but my fear kept my mouth shut.
Then she opened the large door leading to the terrace. She slowly leaned against the railing.
She listened intently for the sounds of soldiers before she peeked outside the door. Just the other day, Mrs. Lee from next door had been caught outside after curfew hours - no one had heard from her since. Mother put her index finger up to her mouth and smiled as if to say, I’ll be right back.
“Push me off.” She said daringly.
“No, mom, don’t go,” I whispered after her, but she was already gone.
Shadows
Years later, trepidation still grabs at my ankle. Like a shadow, it follows me around, clawing at my achilles heel. Blood gushes. Dragging myself across the room, I paint a red carpet behind me. “Mom, why did you say you were going to die?”
She laughs and with each ha! ha! ha! I writhe like a caterpillar.
“Oh I forgot about that. It was the best way to make you listen to me. It worked like a charm!”
She says, like it was nothing.
“So you were lying?”
“Pretty much.”
But I remember otherwise. Her voice trembled as she strategized her moves to jump, her eyes darted left and right; yet still she was completely oblivious to the angst towards the living that was consuming her alive. The same angst, the same shadow, that melted off of my grandmother’s feet onto mom’s head, which then drip-drip-dripped on my forehead until I was soaked and now now rested at my own two feet.
The shadow does not stay below us. It crawls up from the bottom of our feet, then spreads to our shins, then torso, up to our necks. It grows like nasty fungi in ugly greens and purples. We simply clasp our palms over our eyes and wish the monster gone. But it is to no avail. From the whispers of death, the smell of sour jjigae, or even the nauseating shrills you get as it attempts to hug you is proof that it is still beside you.
[1] “Did you put the soup on the stove or not?”
“Good night. Good night mom, good night. Good night. Good night.” I tie a ribbon of words around my mother’s wrist and let it unfurl in my mouth as I make my way to the door. It is too short, I have run out. “Good night, good night,” I add hurriedly; with this I make it to my bed. I turn the words around in my tongue, the guttural ‘g’s and the soft plosive ‘t’s lull me to sleep. In my dream, I prance around like a gymnast leaping and twirling, the ribbon of ‘good night’s extending forever in an intricate pattern connecting me to her. In the distance my mother also prances, the ribbon moving her. Her limbs bounce weightlessly, without intention. Then I see, she is tied around her neck, a tight noose stringing her along like a fish on a hook with every one of my words. A siren sings in the distance, and she swings down like a pendulum with each note.
I rush back down the stairs, past the kitchen, into my mom’s room. To my surprise, she is laying perfectly fine in her bed.
“Good night, mom. Good night. Good night. Good night.”
She sighs a little, barely masking her annoyance. “Okay. You too.”
Satisfied, I hold her warm hands for a second, wish her a good night's sleep, and prance out of her room once more.
Oopsie
Me, 2018
Grandmother, 1942
It started off with the smallest mistake.
It started off with the smallest mistake.
I was so caught up in watching my favorite show that I had forgotten my mom’s request to vacuum my room.
I was so caught up reading my favorite magazine that I had forgotten to put the jjigae on the stove.
By the time she came back and spotted the floor still covered in dust, her face fell flat.
By the time she came back and spotted the soup gone sour, her face fell flat.
“Did you clean your room yet?” she yelled.
“너 찌개 불에 올려놨어 안 놨어?”[1] she whispered.
I made the most foolish response, “Oopsie.”
“Oopsie.”
“I told you to do it! You said you’d do it! You never do as I say! I can’t live like this, with a daughter who treats me this way! Maybe you just want me gone. You’ll be better off without me.”
“That means we don’t have any food… I’ll go get some food for us.”
Each word latched itself onto the bottom of my heart and suffocated me.
I wanted to apologize and tell her it wasn’t true, but my fear kept my mouth shut.
Then she opened the large door leading to the terrace. She slowly leaned against the railing.
She listened intently for the sounds of soldiers before she peeked outside the door. Just the other day, Mrs. Lee from next door had been caught outside after curfew hours - no one had heard from her since. Mother put her index finger up to her mouth and smiled as if to say, I’ll be right back.
“Push me off.” She said daringly.
“No, mom, don’t go,” I whispered after her, but she was already gone.
Shadows
Years later, trepidation still grabs at my ankle. Like a shadow, it follows me around, clawing at my achilles heel. Blood gushes. Dragging myself across the room, I paint a red carpet behind me. “Mom, why did you say you were going to die?”
She laughs and with each ha! ha! ha! I writhe like a caterpillar.
“Oh I forgot about that. It was the best way to make you listen to me. It worked like a charm!”
She says, like it was nothing.
“So you were lying?”
“Pretty much.”
But I remember otherwise. Her voice trembled as she strategized her moves to jump, her eyes darted left and right; yet still she was completely oblivious to the angst towards the living that was consuming her alive. The same angst, the same shadow, that melted off of my grandmother’s feet onto mom’s head, which then drip-drip-dripped on my forehead until I was soaked and now now rested at my own two feet.
The shadow does not stay below us. It crawls up from the bottom of our feet, then spreads to our shins, then torso, up to our necks. It grows like nasty fungi in ugly greens and purples. We simply clasp our palms over our eyes and wish the monster gone. But it is to no avail. From the whispers of death, the smell of sour jjigae, or even the nauseating shrills you get as it attempts to hug you is proof that it is still beside you.
[1] “Did you put the soup on the stove or not?”
Writer's Statement: Taeri Kim is a sophomore attending Blair Academy. She has a strong passion towards addressing teen mental health. Through her writing, she hopes to provide teens her age with support and a sense of belonging by sharing her own confessional experiences.