1985-Gravediggers
His hand gripping hers tightly,
Ankles wet from midnight dew.
White moon casting a ghastly light.
Money had run dry.
“No more good money after bad,”
Eldest brother said.
Up the hill,
Calves burning,
Knuckles white.
Shovels running faint lines
In the grass.
No more foreign cars.
No more luxury villa in Seoul.
At the top,
Perfect black marble
Glistening, foreboding.
“Are you sure?”
She whispers, a hand on his arm.
No reply.
The fortune teller had told them.
“The reason for your misfortune,”
Grass yanked from its roots,
Giving way to moist dirt.
Steel cutting through earth,
The mound shrinking rapidly.
Scents of sweat and dirt
Intertwined with fatigue
And blistered hands.
“Is because your father’s bones are buried in the
wrong place.”
Clang. Her shovel collides with something hard.
Scrape, scrape, scrape to reveal
Smooth wood boards.
“5 million won,” he begged.
The gravekeeper’s unconvinced stare.
He grunts, muscles straining.
The lid creaking open to reveal
Twenty years of rot
Festering.
“10 million won.”
“We can’t afford this.”
Her dress muddy as she reaches down
To grab a bone.
Brittle, cold.
Clink. Into the bag and repeat.
He waits for the watchful eyes
To come,
To shout,
But they never do.
“10 million,” he sighed.
The gravekeeper’s satisfied smile.
Trying to ignore the acid
Scalding his throat
As his hand scrapes the bottom,
Picking up every last bit.
They flee arm in arm,
Bearing a heavy weight
They’ll never set down.
“They’ll never know,” she says.
“They’ll never know.”
No one did know,
Until the mysterious phone call,
And the family found their
Father’s desecrated
Grave.
Five years later,
A nephew fallen from a mountaintop.
A brother he’ll never get back.
Permanent exile from the family.
And still
No more money.
Selling silk scarves
On a street corner
In Queens,
His hand gripping hers tightly.
1988-Three Not Four
“It’s a girl,” Mother-In-Law says,
nose wrinkling. “What a waste.”
Daughter-in-law lies
In a hospital bed
Fatigued, sticky with sweat.
Bright lights scald her eyes.
Hushed voices a collection
Of indiscernible chatter
“A girl,” Father-in-Law mutters.
“Why did it have to be a girl? We already have two.”
“At least the eldest is pretty,” Mother-in-Law reassures him.
Pretty.
Pale skin,
Long dark hair,
At least she
Would be able to marry well
And bear strong, healthy sons
For her future husband.
“This one isn’t,” Mother-in-Law continues,
Looking at
The baby
Whose lip is split
Clean down the middle.
“Should we fix it?” she asks.
Father-in-Law shakes his head.
“No,” he says, “It’s a waste. Besides.”
He hands the baby off to Mother-in-Law.
“I’m sure the orphanage would be delighted.”
The husband sighs.
“Don’t worry, Omma, Appa. We’ll try for another.”
“Useless woman,” Father-in-Law chides.
“Can’t even bear me a grandson.”
A year later
Back in the hospital room
A fourth child born,
The third long forgotten.
“Perfect.”
“Finally, a boy.”
A nurse enters the room.
“The Seoul Olympics are on.
Would you like me to turn on the TV?”
2010-Glass Eater
At the annual
Yoon family gathering
The children run
Along the riverbank,
The adults sit outside
The complex while
Doctor Yoon presides
Over the estate
His estate.
The Yoon family’s
Youngest child
Waddles over,
Chubby hands holding
A bowl full of rainbow candies.
Doctor Yoon picks one up
A blue one
Admiring it under the light.
So smooth and shiny,
As if made of glass.
He pops it into his mouth.
The Family stops laughing.
He moves it from cheek to cheek.
“That’s glass,” says Daughter-in-Law.
He is
Too consumed by pride
To spit it out.
Admitting fallacy
Would be to
Wear a badge of shame
Until he crumbled
Into sand.
“That’s glass,” she says, louder this time.
Doctor Yoon did not make mistakes.
“That’s glass.”
How hard could it be?
The texture of candy
But without the beckoning taste.
As long as he was
Very, very
Careful,
It wouldn’t
Tear through muscle
As he forced it down.
Crunch.
The sound like a firecracker
Makes Daughter-in-Law jump.
Crunch.
A shard almost slices his gums.
Crunch.
Everyone watches.
Let them watch.
Let them see that
Doctor Yoon
Is never wrong.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Grinding glass into sand
So fine that it won’t scrape up
His insides
As he swallows it down,
Mouth filled with blood.
Sarah Parmet is a sophomore who lives off caffeine, adrenaline and very little sleep. When she’s not struggling in chemistry, she can be found writing, dancing and making music. Sarah, who now lives in LA, draws inspiration from a childhood spent in Hong Kong, along with the academic pressures that she faces. She enjoys writing fiction and poetry.
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