Grandmother's onggi jar is still in the yard.The lid is a little cracked and moss has grown on it.There is nothing inside:no soybean paste, no chili paste, nothing.And yet when I open the lid,a rich old smell still rises.
Every morning Grandmother tended the jars.She wiped them carefully with a white handkerchief.I crouched beside herand watched her wrinkled hands.She smiled without a wordand sprinkled a little jar-water on my hair.
On the day Grandmother died,one more crack appeared in the jar.Without anyone knowing, I traced that crackwith my finger.Perhaps that wasthe last goodbye I gave her.
Now, whenever I open that jar,it feels as if I am sitting in Grandmother's kitchen.I put this letter inside the jar.Grandmother probably will not be able to read it.Still, every spring,I will buy one new lid.