Mother, I am herebeside the perilla flowers you planted.The leaves are still wet,and the morning fog has covered the whole yard.You must be sitting by the hearth,warming yourself by the fire.
I stopped while writing the letter.Again and again I crumpled it and threw it into the corner.The persimmon tree in the yard sways,and a bird sits on the letter.I have only one thing to say,but the paper keeps changing.
The salt jar on the jangdok stand is empty.You always filled that first.I still remember it:the feel of your hand scooping in the salt.An old woman I saw at the market recentlylooked like your back as she walked away.
This neighborhood has none of the same smells:not soybean paste boiling, not the steam of laundry.Alone in the kitchen, I speak out loud.When one sentence ends, I begin the next.The bowls on the shelf remain where they were,and I keep being unable to stop talking.
The letter is not yet in an envelope.When I try to write the address, my hand trembles.You are probably waiting for me,sitting alone in the dark kitchen.But I cannot send this letter,because I am afraid of it being read.