An Empty House
The house has not been occupied since my father left for the city. It is still standing, but is now occupied by a wild cat and his family. The gate and orange tree-lined wall remain the same. In front of the guest house, gingko trees greet me while the swallows fly under the roof.
My grandpa built this house in the 1920s on a solid foundation. He planted the gingko trees from the gingko my mother brought when she married my father. These trees are almost as old as me, 65. My father named one tree, “Poet,” when I left for the United States. I was 26. He was using this house as his summer house.
My uncles’ weddings were all conducted in the courtyard. My father’s funeral was also held in the courtyard. Now, it is full of the same weeds as the wilderness. At the corner, a well is abandoned, but the blue sky and white clouds surround the house during the day, and stars at night. The sight of the well brings back memories of cool showers during the hot, humid summers.
The kitchen was not just the kitchen. My aunts showered in the kitchen. My grandmother watched her daughters shower from outside the kitchen.
The back yard was filled with persimmon trees, there was a terrace where jars of kimchi were left for fermentation. On the narrow wooden veranda, I read Emily Dickinson, Herman Hesse, Leo Tolstoi, Albert Camus, Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck during my summer vacation while the song of the cuckoo drifted down from the mountain.
Now, I sit down on the wooden floor, watching the rapid train passing through my hometown, and feel guilt for neglecting the house. I am now very far from this house. I am in a foreign country. I visit once a year.
The wind opens the gate, inviting the birds to the orange and persimmon trees in the yard. I see a snail. I envy the snail as it lives with its own home on its back as it goes about. People, in their shame, keep their houses on their hearts. It is better to get homesick.
