Please Look After Mom - Kyung-Sook Shin [4]
When you said, “Mom can get lost, you know,” your sister-in-law widened her eyes in surprise. “You know how Mom is these days,” you explained, and your sister-in-law made a face, as if she had no idea what you were talking about. But your family knew what Mom was like these days. And knew that you might not be able to find her.
When was it you realized that Mom didn’t know how to read?
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You wrote your first letter when you jotted down what Mom dictated to send to Hyong-chol, soon after he moved to the city. Hyong-chol graduated from high school in the small village you were all born in, studied at home for the civil-service exam for a year, and went to the city for his first assignment. It was the first parting between Mom and one of her children. Back then, your family didn’t have a phone, and the only way to communicate was through letters. Hyong-chol sent her letters written in large type. Your mom always intuitively knew when Hyong-chol’s letters would arrive. The mailman came around eleven in the morning with a large bag hanging from his bicycle. On the days when Hyong-chol’s letters arrived, Mom would come in from the fields, or from the creek where she would be doing the laundry, to receive the letter personally from the mailman. Then she waited for you to come home from school, led you to the back porch, and took out Hyong-chol’s letter. “Read it out loud,” she would tell you.
Hyong-chol’s letters always started with “Dearest Mother.” As if he were following a textbook on how to write letters, Hyong-chol asked after the family and said he was doing well. He wrote that he brought his laundry to Father’s cousin’s wife once a week, and that she washed it for him, as Mom had asked her to do. He reported that he was eating well, that he had found a place to sleep as he had started staying overnight at work, and asked her not to worry about him. Hyong-chol also wrote that he felt he could do anything in the city, and that there were many things he wanted to do. He even revealed his ambition to become a success and give Mom a better life. Twenty-year-old Hyong-chol gallantly added, So, Mother, do not worry about me, and please take care of your health. When you peeked over the letter at Mom, you would see her staring at the taro stalks in the back yard, or at the ledge of tall clay jars filled with sauces. Your mom’s ears would be cocked like a rabbit’s, trying not to miss a single word. After you finished reading the letter, your mom instructed you to write down what she would tell you. Mom’s first words were “Dear Hyong-chol.” You wrote down, Dear Hyong-chol. Mom didn’t tell you to put a period after it, but you did. When she said, “Hyong-chol!” you wrote down, Hyong-chol! When Mom paused after calling his name, as if she’d forgotten what she wanted to say, you tucked strands of your bob behind your ear and waited attentively for your mom to continue, ballpoint pen in hand, staring down at the stationery. When she said, “The weather’s turned cold,” you wrote, The weather has turned cold. Mom always followed “Dear Hyong-chol” with something about the weather: “There are flowers now that it’s spring.” “It’s summer, so the paddy bed is starting to dry and crack.” “It’s harvest season, and there are beans overflowing on the paddy banks.” Mom spoke in your regional dialect unless it was to dictate a letter to Hyong-chol. “Don’t worry about anything at home, and please take care of yourself. That is the only thing your mother wishes from you.” Mom’s letters always swelled with a current of emotion: “I am sorry that I can’t be of any help to you.” As you carefully wrote down Mom’s words, she would shed a fat tear. The last words from your mom were always the same: “Make sure you eat all your meals. Mom.”
As the third of five children, you witnessed Mom’s sorrow and pain and