The Recipe Card in Her Drawer

The recipe card is still on my fridge. My mother's handwriting, the one with the looped ㄱ that leans left. Im made galbi-jjim from that card. Which means Im opened the drawer, Im stood where my mother stands, Im probably rested the card on the same counter I used to rest it on when I was learning.

Maa called today and did not say my name. Not once. She told me Appa is doing better — two hours, Im talked to him for two hours about his shoulder, Maa said, like a gift she was handing me to unwrap. Two hours Im got. I got nine minutes and most of those were weather and are the plants alive.

I was slicing radish when my thumb went. The blood on the white board looked so correct I took a picture before I knew I was reaching for the phone. Red on white has become my eye. I think I said it out loud, alone, to the cutting board. That's the kind of sentence I only say when no one is in the flat to catch it.

Bought band-aids at the Yeonnam-dong mart. The cashier said take care in a voice that meant nothing and I said thank you in a voice that meant thank you and we both survived.

The condition I set myself: do not call Maa until I have the badge photo and the lock of hair in hand. I don't know why I picked those two. The badge because the ABANDONED POST notice is still sitting on my bedside table like a small flat lamp I can't switch off. The lock of hair because I am being superstitious and small and I want proof of something I cannot name. Im gets two hours in the house. I get a lock of hair from the dead and a flagged badge from the living.