I have one. I’m one. I know a lot.
The mothers who wear, who look, who take care of and worry. He likes, suffers, fights and always forgives.
In just a few weeks we travel to Korea. Me and my Koreans. It is approaching now and the thoughts turn. That the mother of Ahn-Sophie actually exists (albeit seriously ill with cancer) and that her little brother is waiting for us there.
It’s all about. A story that has never been recorded, but whose first chapter is now starting to be written.
I thought a lot about my own mother.
The woman who was told me two years ago died in a small village outside of Seoul. I’m sorry? Angry? Relieved?
No. I usually feel a calm peace. A relief to know that she lived her life and that my documents actually bear traces of truth.
But still. I would have liked to know more. Who was she? Did we have the same eyes? The same laughter? Something to hold, something to remember.
Yet I am not angry. Not bitter. Not stuck in the past. Instead, I feel awe. She lived for her and for life. For the uncertainty, she wore without knowing about me.
But I would have liked to give her that soothing message. What just a daughter can give her mother: that everything was fine. That I am grateful. Thankful for the country I had to grow on. For youth, safety, life.
When everything falls into place, when the pieces still settle, this is the gratitude that remains. Thankful for my mother. My real mother. She who loved me, cherished me, lived by my side. Those who could never be replaced by anyone else.
Those who has always been home.
♥ ️
#MAM #August