In Korea, I teach English
to children who shout my name
before the bell rings.
Outside the classroom
the street begins—
motorcycles slip past,
buses brake ice coffee sweats in my palm
before my first morning lesson.
Above me, cherry blossom trees awake, loosen themselves into the air.
Light pink petals scatter everywhere through traffic, interrupting ordinary lives— taxi drivers pause to check their rearview, halmeonis lay down their garlic knives letting petals brush their shoulders like butterflies.
These petals are also my mother’s hands—
light pink, opening and letting go.
My mother, who is gone now.
The blossoms travel roads
without asking where to go sliding along crosswalks,
spinning in bicycle spokes,
gathering at the road’s edge,
where the wind decides
their next direction.
It is not that I am searching for my mom
among the cherry blossoms. No, she keeps to her script of being gone
and I to the work of the living—
calling out spelling words,
lifting my voice so the students repeat me,
classroom of bright noise
holding the morning together.
It is the shape of love we have come to.
When my mom passed
I was here in Korea
walking beneath trees
that were all light pink at once.
From far away
the falling petals looked almost alive—
congregating like little confetti birds into long pale lines petal touching petal, performing a floral seance.
It was the kind of thing that would have made her chuckle—
a whole city stopped in their tracks by cherry blossoms holding hands?
I say this to my mom now
believing she still walks beside me.
See, mom, how they drift, how they greet people along sidewalks,
how they wait for the next breeze?
This time the blossoms rise again from the ground. When they reach toward me, I pretend not to see them or make a sound. What’s the point — they’re already inside me?
Leave a Reply