My grandmother, Harmoni, walked in pendulum motion—left, right, left, right—in a pace that was soft and matched with time. As she walked next to me, I looked up to see the sun shine on her silvery gray hair and her dark skin that was patterned with deeply formed lines and brown spots. As we matched our walking rhythm, she began her tale once again about how I should have been born a boy. Her deep voice, interspersed with occasional laughter, accompanied our ritual walk to church on Wednesday evenings along the dirt ridden paths of Busan, Korea. As we walked back home in the cool summer evening, Harmoni reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bundle rolled up in her handkerchief. As she unwrapped it, I could smell from a distance the sweet sour smell of kimchi pancakes.
(read more in Asian Blues)
available in Amazon as 2013 Issue