Before “umma” stumbled out of my lips,

before the pastor proclaimed her “wife,”

before the Americans labeled her “Esther,” 

and before her three little siblings squealed “older sister,” 

She was just a seven-pound 

wailing newborn,  

her mother cupping the baby

to her breasts,  

choking out,  

“우리 연향”  

“Our Yeon Hyang” 

 I.           1985: 가경, South Korea  

연향 was a beautiful girl,  

sweetly smiling as her doe eyes twinkled, 

her nose sharper than any other.

Boys from 강경중앙초등학교 (Ganggyeong Jungang Elementary School),

church, and the streets flocked around,  

as the grannies with curly tight black hair,

pinched her cheeks.  

연향 was a talented girl,  

elegant music lacing around her nimble fingers,  

seeping out colors,  

vibrant, muted, pastel,  

from the black and white piano keys, 

her hands dancing,  

arms flowing,  

as the notes sparkled in the air.

The townspeople of 강경 (Ganggyeong) and 대전 (Daejeon)

gazed in awe,

gold medals hanging around 연향’s neck,  

having triumphed piano and singing competitions,  

연향 was a child of God,  

her voice praising the Lord,  

a gift so wonderful,  

it was often mistaken as stolen from an angel.  

If 연향 hadn’t migrated to the US, 

searched for the American dream, 

or met her future husband,

how much easier could she have called out to her mother,

who she had been away from

for almost two decades.  

How much freer 

could 연향  have been

without her children?

How she would’ve stunned the news,  

with her bright red lipstick,  

alluring big brown eyes,  

shining smile,  

and a sweet, strong voice,  

accompanied by her piano.  

연향 could’ve been a star.  

Yet in America she’s chained,

driving her children

to their music lessons,  

staying at home,  

and remaining unknown.  

Motherhood,  

oh, so precious,  

yet a chain  

binding  

every  

woman 

to their  

children,  

throwing away their endless possibility of futures.

II.         2024: Seoul, South Korea  

Traces of summer lingered,

my grandmother’s hands gripping onto mine, 

as I rushed for my flight back to Boston.

I become one with the crowd,  

fading from my grandmother’s

one eye,

the one

not yet fallen into blindness.  

She had no other choice

but to let go,

just as she did,

eleven years ago.    

Let go

the one who looks most like

her daughter—

my mother,

the brown doe eyes,

the sharp nose.

My mother,

who dusted Korea behind

eleven years ago.

Standing in line to board the plane,  

I imagine—

Tears spilling from our grandmother’s eyes both deemed blind,  

brown doe eyes unable to see 

how much my mother has blossomed,  

or how slowly she had wilted,  

her voice locked away,  

her mother tongue stripped for

a decade.   

My mother collapsing into

grandmother’s arms,  

years of wait and pain  

seeping from wails and sobs.

“연향, 엄마가 얼마나 오래 기다렸는데 이제 보니?” 

“Yeon Hyang, momma waited for so long, but I see you now?” 

I enter the plane,  

a step away from the home of my mother,

bittersweetness tugging at my soul,

as I imagine my mother.

연향 left her.  

Esther slapped her in the face, yet  

Mom  

begged for her love.

May 연향 be remembered.

Thank you:  

Mom to us, Esther to Americans, 연향 (Yeonhyang)