Loneliness is an illness

 “My son and daughter-in-law are going to Manhattan. They will bring you sesame leaf kimchi.” "Stop. Leave me alone” 

“They'll leave it to the doorman. Eat deliciously.” 

“Please stop it.” 

"I'll do whatever I want to because you do whatever you want,.” 

This is the content of a phone call between me and a friend who was staying at home because of the virus last winter. 

 A sack of rice, boiled glutinous rice with jujube, chestnut and pine nut, and sesame leaf kimchi, cod roe, bean sprout soup, and persimmons fill the table. I put sesame leaf kimchi on glutinous rice and started to eat it. My hands trembled as I used chopsticks and tears gathered. 

 A long time ago, while studying abroad on Long Island, loneliness was an illness. As if on an uninhabited island, my loneliness was overwhelming, so no other thoughts could come through my head. Someone said that there are many people who look like me if I go to Flushing by train. So I went to Flushing. Standing on Roosevelt Avenue meeting Main Street, I beckoned to Asians and laughed. People walked by quickly, avoiding my grinning eyes. I was just happy that there was Flushing so I could spend the day without being lonely. I stopped by a now-defunct Guhwa Foods and bought rice and seasoned radish. When I returned to the dormitory and ate the hot rice with seasoned radish, my hand suddenly trembled and tears burst. The white rice was soaked in tears. 

 While I ate the food that my friend sent, I revived myself at that time. 

"Thanks. It’s so delicious that my hands are trembling.” 

“There are three types of sesame leaf kimche, which one is the most delicious?” 

Three types of kimche? That's weird. Even if I double-check the side dishes my friend sent me, there is only one bottle of sesame leaf kimchi. 

"It's all delicious." 

“Oh, my God!, I forgot to put in two sesame leaf kimchi containers. What do I do?" 

“Stop giving it to me. I said everything was delicious because I'm afraid in case of misunderstanding your daughter-in-law brought it. 

 I kept the food in the refrigerator for my husband, who was coming on the weekend. I put sweet persimmons from my friend's persimmon tree and Hongsi from my friend's next door tree on the table. Should I eat Hongsi? Should I eat sweet persimmon first? I tilted my head and hesitated, looking at the scarlet sensation for a long time. When I was a child, I used to point things with my fingertips when it was difficult to choose. 

“Guess which one to eat.” 

My finger stopped at the sweet persimmon picked from the persimmon tree at her friend's house. 

 In the early days of New York, it is very sweet because the unchanging warmth of a friend I met at a church while wandering the streets in loneliness was conveyed. My whole body melts in the sugar.