Scoop the mix of soaked rice, sesame oil, your aunt’s sharp breaths into your hands.
Roll the dough between your palms until it listens. Press it into songpyeon, the half-moon.
You are peeking over the shoulders of your aunties,
as they show you once then urge you forward with their fingers
pressed into the small of your back.
Your yellow apron looks washed-out beside their bright ones,
the same yellow you saw in the stairwell this morning,
damp with a leak from the ceiling that no one bothered to fix.
You rushed past it so no one could ask
why the oldest daughter is always the slowest.
They ask anyway.
Scoop. Press. Seal. Steam.
The first fold splits. The fourth. The tenth.
There’s an art to keeping the dough soft enough to bend
but firm enough not to betray you;
you don’t know it yet.
Pretend you don’t hear the clicking tongues behind you,
or see the aunt in the chair turning her smile into a sleeve.
Make sure the edges do not open. Scoop. Seal.
An uncle passes by. Smiles at you for a second too long.
But you are too busy keeping sweat from falling in,
trying not to season the mixture with worry.
Start. Scoop. Press. Seal. Steam. Stop.
Maybe this has nothing to do with you.
Maybe their knees ache too much now to crouch by the steamer.
Maybe their hair is whitening faster than the pine needles drying on the counter.
Maybe they wish someone would admire the table they set for Charye,
memorial bowls placed so the ancestors know the way home.
Or maybe they simply want hands other than their own
to hold the weight of tradition for once.
Steam. Don’t let the water spill over.
You carried incense for gravesite bows,
while your grandmother whispered—soft, but not soft enough—
that she wished her first grandchild had been a boy.
You watched her praise your younger brother,
jal-saeng-gyeoss-eoyo, handsome boy,
while you were told to shrink:
less rice in your bowl,
less space in the room,
less noise when you breathed.
You remember your father lifting food from your spoon,
telling you you ate too much,
forcing you up mountains each weekend
even when your ribs burned from the climb he chose.
Pinch. Stop. Pinch. Stop. Steam. Steam.
You once taught English at hagwon,
then you had your daughter,
and the work became heavier, quieter, more complete than anything before.
Still the aunts ask:
What is your real job?
Why does your child speak so much English?
Will you forget them
When will you go to America?
Their questions stay in the air like flour dust.
Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Press. Seal. Stop. Steam.
One aunt will sniff and say she smells it—
the smell of a woman leaving.
Another will watch you with the flicker of candlelight
caught between warning and longing.
They want to say we will miss you,
but advice feels easier in the mouth
than sorrow.
Again. Again. Again. Press. Seal. Steam. Burn.
You should have paid less attention.
Fall. Fall. Fall.
And because they are your aunts,
they will ask what they always ask:
Did you shower today?
Are you taking care of your husband?
Are you teaching your daughter Korean, or will she become
one of those children who forgets where she came from?
But nothing stings like the aunt who pulls you away
from the half-made songpyeon
and says your hands are too clumsy,
that you might ruin the spirit of the day.
STOP.
You could cry.
Let them tease the way your chin twitches,
say you were spoiled growing up,
say your parents let you get away with too much.
Or you could answer:
show me where it says a woman must bend
more than the dough she shapes.
Show me why a daughter who lifts her own family
must bow lower than anyone else.
Let them sigh. Let them look away.
Let it all soften in steam—pine needles, heat, patience.
Pick up a warm songpyeon, break it open,
taste the sweet sesame filling,
double dip in the honey bowl while they watch.
Swallow the last bite.
Call your daughter to your side.
Then leave.
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