My Father’s Story

Our house had a blue gate at the end of the alley. Just inside, a persimmon tree grew in one corner of the yard. In autumn you could almost see more fruit than leaves.

There were two rooms, and we slept together in the main one. In winter, my brother and I raced under the blankets to claim the warmest patch of floor. When I woke up, I could smell rice cooking in the kitchen.

We often ate barley rice with young radish kimchi. Mother would put the rice in a big metal bowl and drizzle sesame oil over it. My brothers and I mixed it all together.

Whenever I eat that kimchi now, I remember the bowl. There were no special side dishes. I think it tasted so good because we were all sitting around it together.

I was the student waiting for the bell. Once I got out to the playground, I never wanted to go back inside. I was quite a good runner.

But I did like language class. When the teacher read aloud, the whole room went quiet. I loved listening to those stories. Sometimes, when I see you reading, I remember that classroom.

My friend Jinsu lived in the next village. We met on the path between the rice fields on our way to school. When it rained, we took off our shoes and carried them in our bags.

We lost touch for a while, then met again at a reunion a few years ago. His hair had gone grey, but his smile was the same. Whenever he calls, he still asks whether I’ve eaten.

At the shop where I worked after moving to Seoul, I was put in charge of opening up. The owner handed me the key, and it felt surprisingly heavy. If I was late, nobody else could start work.

For the first month I woke up before my alarm. I only relaxed after lifting the shutter, sweeping the floor and putting the kettle on. It wasn’t a grand job, but I liked being trusted with it.

My first pay came in an envelope. I took it to the market and bought thermal underwear for my mother. With what was left I had a bowl of gukbap. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

When I took the gift home, Mother said it was too precious to wear. Then she wore it for more than ten years. Even when the sleeves stretched out, she wouldn’t throw it away.

A friend invited me out to eat, and your mom was there. I was so nervous I kept fiddling with my water glass. She pushed a side dish towards me and told me to help myself.

She wasn’t loud or showy, but I felt at ease around her. When I got home, I asked my friend when we were meeting again. He smiled as if he knew exactly why I was asking.

Once, on a rainy day, we missed our bus stop and went all the way to the end of the line. We were so busy talking that neither of us noticed.

We got off, ate a bowl of noodles and caught the bus back. We didn’t go anywhere special, but we still talk about that day. Your mom says I missed the stop on purpose. Honestly, I didn’t.

Honestly, I was frightened at first. This tiny person was my son. The nurse told me to support your neck, and I held my arms so stiffly.

Then you gripped my little finger. I marvelled at your tiny fingernails. I stood looking down at you for ages. Back in the room, I told your mom I thought you had my hands. She just laughed.

Your grandfather spent days poring over a dictionary of Chinese characters. Jeong for upright, hwan for bright. He named you Jeonghwan, hoping you would live with kindness and light.

At first, we wrote it down and kept saying it aloud. Your mom looked at your face and called you by your name, over and over. After a few days, no other name seemed possible.

I remember taking you to the sea for the first time. You ran away when the waves came in, then chased the water as it slipped back out. You did that for an hour.

Before we left, you put a handful of sand in your pocket to take home. Your mom found it in the laundry a few days later and laughed. I still remember how small your shoes were.

You loved cardboard boxes. Whenever we bought you a toy, you wanted the box first. The big ones were houses; the little ones were garages.

Once you lined them up in the living room, called it a train and made me get in. My legs wouldn’t fit, so they stuck out of the sides. You shouted that we were leaving. I wasn’t allowed off until dinner.

There was a time when work suddenly dried up. I was used to leaving at the same hour every morning. At home, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

In the mornings I looked for work. In the afternoons I held your hand and walked around the neighbourhood. I saw it in daylight in a way I never had before. I worried a lot, but when you explained the stones you had found, for a moment that was all I listened to.

I wanted us to eat dinner together. It wasn’t some grand principle. Even after a difficult day, I wanted there to be people waiting to share a meal at home.

If we didn’t have much, I fried eggs. You stood beside me, reminding me not to break the yolks. After a little time like that, I could leave tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow.

Your mom. When I said I was fine, she didn’t push me to explain. Instead, she put my shoes by the door and suggested a walk.

We talked about all sorts of ordinary things. A new shop, the neighbour’s growing puppy. She didn’t need to offer a solution. Having someone walking beside me helped. I was grateful for that.

I made the bed as soon as I got up. I wanted at least one thing in the day that I could put in order. Then I opened the window and drank a glass of water.

It didn’t make the worries disappear. But it helped me begin the day. Making the bed first thing is a habit I still have from those days.

I used to worry about falling behind everyone else. I thought a better house or a nicer car would make me feel settled.

These days I’m happy when my knees hurt a little less in the morning, or when you call and say nothing much is happening. Those things used to seem too ordinary to notice. An ordinary day turns out to be quite precious.

I don’t walk as fast as I used to. But I notice the flowers by the road more often. Going slowly isn’t all bad.

There are still things I want to do. I’d like to take a train trip with your mom for a few days. No packed itinerary this time. If we like a town, we’ll stay another night.

On Sunday mornings, when I wake up late and make coffee. I’ve started enjoying sitting by an open window with nothing particular to do. I used to feel I should be busy even on weekends.

And when I come home and you ask what I’d like to eat. I always say anything is fine. But really, I just like that you ask.

I want to be someone who doesn’t make promises too lightly. And once I’ve made one, I want to keep it, even if it’s small.

When I was little, if you said we’d go to the park on Saturday, we went. I didn’t think much of it then. Now I know making time isn’t always easy. I’d like to be that kind of person for someone too.