It was strange

A few months ago, my college friend from LA said she was coming to New York. Today, she finally called to say she was on the plane. But on that very day, I got a stomachache. I thought it would go away after a day of rest, but it didn’t. It lasted for several days. I had no energy and couldn’t even get out of bed. I tried to go outside with my shopping cart, but my legs were shaking, so I came back and lay down again.

It felt like I was pretending to be sick just to avoid her. But she didn’t give up—she kept calling, asking to meet. The weather had been hot, but strangely, that day it turned chilly. She showed up wearing a colorful coat a friend in New York gave her, and her hair was almost completely shaved. How long had it been since we last met? Maybe ten years ago, when she visited New York.

“You haven’t aged at all. No wrinkles. Your eyes didn’t even droop,”
she said, staring closely at my face.
I replied,
“Your eyes must be really bad. Put on your glasses and take a better look. I’ve aged a lot.”
We both laughed and said silly things, trying to comfort each other about getting old.

It was strange. I had been so sick, but that day, I wasn’t cold or in pain. As we walked arm in arm, a wave of old friendship rose up from deep inside my chest. She said she wanted peanuts from a street vendor, so I bought them for her. I wanted to buy her everything she asked for. She also seemed worried about my thin clothes and kept saying she wanted to buy me something warmer. We walked and rested, then walked some more, all around Manhattan. We went into the Museum of Modern Art, and when we came out, it was already getting dark.

Something was off. My friend, who never used to smoke, kept lighting cigarettes.
Then she suddenly asked,
“You still go on and on about small things like they’re big problems. That must mean you’re doing okay, huh?”
She didn’t really wait for my answer. With a sad face, she looked up at the sky in silence.

Then, as if something heavy had hit her from above, her eyes filled with tears, and she cried hard—but only for a moment.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked.
“My oldest son died.”
I was speechless.
“Can I have a cigarette too?”
It had been decades since I last asked for one.
“His memorial day is coming up. I’ve been holding back my tears, but I couldn’t anymore.”
We leaned against a wall and said nothing, just smoked. I wished I could burn down an entire field with the fire from our cigarettes—if only that could somehow comfort her. My heart ached, and tears kept coming.

I held her arm even tighter, and we walked silently through the dark streets, not even thinking about going home. She kept saying she wanted something warm, maybe to ease the pain in her chest. We went into a Japanese restaurant, and we buried her sad face in a bowl of shrimp udon, quietly slurping the noodles.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that happened. Let’s meet again. We have to stay healthy if we want to see each other again,” I told her.

We said goodbye. She stood in a dark alley, leaning against the wall, blowing out smoke. I turned and walked away, leaving her heavy shadow behind. My legs felt like they were being pulled out of deep mud—so heavy, so hard to move.

레오니아 뒤뜰에서

늘 주변 이웃에 베푸는 저 남쪽 경주 최부자 집안과의 방계혈족이라도 되는지 넓은 뒤뜰의 만찬이 풍성하고 여유롭다. 모두가 싱글벙글이다. 바비큐 그릴에 구운 갈비를 몇 대나 해치웠더라?

지난 일주일 동안 바이러스성 배탈로 고생한 후라 걸식 들린 사람처럼 초대받은 집에 가서 갈비를 뜯었다. 집에 와 곯아떨어져 자고 나니 기운이 솟는 듯하다. “잘 잤남” 하는 남편의 아침 인사 소리에 대꾸하려는데 목이 콱 막혀 쉰 소리가 났다. 파티에서 너무 떠들어서 목이 또. 아차 싶었다.

왜 나는 소리 낮춰 교양있게 말과 행동을 하지 않고 목이 쉴 정도로 떠드는지. 

“나 어제 큰소리로 주책 떨었지?” 

“아니 재미있게 얘기 잘하던데. 모처럼 그런 데서 사람들과 얘기하며 스트레스 풀어야지.” 

항상 남편은 좋았어! 잘했어. 하며 나를 앞장세우고 모임에 나간다. 내 목소리는 점점 고장 난 마이크처럼 거칠고 커져만 간다.

남편 목청은 나보다 더 크다. 우리 부부는 한마디로 쌍방으로 주책바가지다. 시어머니 목소리도 만만치 않다. 평소에 시아버지는 ‘제발 목소리 좀 낮춰요.’ 하셨다. 그런데 왜 조용한 친정엄마의 DNA는 어디 가고 시어머니를 닮아가고 있는지. 요즈음 세계인의 눈총받는 중국인 관광객들의 목소리 톤도 조심스럽게 낮아지고 있는데. 우리 부부만 떠드는 존재가 되는 것은 아닌지 모르겠다.

초대받아 간 안주인은 나와는 정반대로 보는 순간 긴장이 확 풀어지며 안겨 쉬고 싶은 사람이다. 내가 찾고 있으면 숨은 듯 있다가 나타나 뒤에서 안아주며 반긴다. 누군가 그녀를 찾는 사람이 있는지 도와주려고 사라졌다가도 주변에 궁금증이라도 생기면 어느새 내 옆에 나타난다.

나도 예전엔 수시로 많은 지인을 초대했다. 내가 먼저 흥겨워서 술에 취해 손님들을 돌보지 않았다. 손님들이 뭔가 필요하다고 나를 찾으면 구석에 처박혀 술을 홀짝이며 찾아보라고 말만 했다. 그들은 찾다가 못 찾으면 앞집 구멍가게를 쥐구멍 들락거리듯 하며 사 오곤 했다. 우리 집 파티 날은 한 블록 옆에 있는 히스패닉 구멍가게 매상이 오르는 날이었다. 급하면 외상도 스스럼없이 주는 사이다.

갈비도 술도 더 마시고 싶어 편안한 자리에 똬리를 틀려는 순간 아니나 다를까 가야지 하며 남편이 손짓했다. 차 있는 쪽으로 아쉬운 듯 끌려갔다. 그 많은 손님을 돌보다 CCTV라도 보고 있었다는 듯 그 집 부부가 우리에게 다가왔다.

나도 초대한 안주인처럼 조곤조곤 말하며 조용히 있는 듯 없는 듯 사람들을 품는 여인네가 되고 싶다. 그러나 오랫동안 생긴 대로 살았기 때문에 인제 와서 우아한 변신을 한다는 것이 그리 쉬운 일이겠는가.

In the backyard of Leonia

The party in the back yard is plentiful. Everyone is smiling and enjoying. How many galbis (barbecue rib) did I eat on the barbecue grill?

After suffering from a virus stomach for the past week, I went to the party and I ate lots of galbis. It seems that the energy rise next morning. I was trying to respond to my husband morning greeting "Good morning," but I can’t answer because I had a sore throat sound. I talked loudly at the party. 

Why do I try to keep my voice down and not act culturally? "Did I make a big noise yesterday?" "No, you were having a good time. You have to talk to people and relieve your stressed." My voice is getting bigger because my husband always led me to the every gathering and say, "you did good."

My husband's voice is louder than me. The voice of my mother-in-law is also very loud. My father-in–law used to say, "Please keep your voice down." But why am I going to resemble my mother-in-law without resembling my mother's quite DNA? Nowadays, the tone of voice of Chinese tourists who are glare of the world is getting lower. I do not know if my husband and I would be the only ones to make a fuss.

The hostess who invited us is the person who is opposite to me. The moment I see her, I feel relaxed. If I am looking for her, she appears hidden and hugs me from behind. If someone is looking for her, she disappears to help them and if there’s something to ask, she comes up next to me.

I used to invite many acquaintances from time to time, but I drunk and didn’t care for the guests. When the guests needed something, I was drunk and could not help well. If they could not find it at my home, they used to buy it from the neighbor shop. Our party day was a day when sales of Hispanic shops next to a block would rise.

I sat down in a comfortable seat, and when I tried to drink more, my husband beckoned, saying, “Time to go home.” I was taken to the side of the car. The house couple seemed to come to us as if they were watching CCTV while taking care of other guests.

I also want to be a woman who is speaking quietly and helping guests in silence like a hostess who invited us. However, it would be so difficult to make a graceful transformation by living as it has been for a long time. However, it would be so difficult to make a graceful transformation because I've lived a rough life for long time. Haven’t I?

우주와 팽주

우주를 품어 감싸 안은 듯 푸근한 미소 띤 팽주 남편이 이 층으로 소리 없이 올라와서는 뜨거운 물이 가득 찬 보온 통을 놓고 수줍은 듯 아래층으로 내려갔다. 우리는 그를 우주라 부르고 그의 부인을 팽주라 부른다. 팽주란 차를 정성스럽게 다려 나누어 주는 사람이다.

그간 쌓인 지난 여름날의 찐득거림을 씻어내기라도 하는 듯 비가 창을 내려친다. 아늑한 실내에서 바람결에 흔들며 막춤이라도 추는 듯한 비를 바라보며 팽주가 따라주는 차를 마신다. ‘더 무엇을 바랄 수 있단 말인가!’ 세상일이 다 잊힌다.

팽주가 다미차를 따라주면 두 손으로 잔을 들어 세 번에 나눠 마신다. 잔이 비면 다시 따라준다. 그녀가 준비한 코코넛 마카롱 또한 별미다. 비 오는 날, 고양이처럼 따뜻하고 편한 곳을 찾아 똬리 틀고 와인과 차를 홀짝이는 것이 딱 내 스타일이다.

팽주가 뭔지도 몰랐다. 코코넛 마카롱조차도 만들 줄 모른다. 그저 분위기에 취해 흐느적거리는 여류 한량이다. 속담에 ‘돈 없으면 건달, 돈 있으며 한량이라는데, 한국말치고는 참!

게다가 오늘의 모임은 좋아하는 친구 몇 명과 함께 하는 ‘물풀’ 글 모임이다. 모임 이름처럼 물이 졸졸 흐르듯, 풀들이 바람결에 서로 비벼대며 속삭이듯 그냥 쓰고 싶은 대로 써 온 글을 읽으며 수다 하는 모임이니 한결 차 맛이 난다.

시간을 쫓는 것인지 아니면 시간에 쫓기는 것인지 초조했던 어제의 내가 팽주가 건네준 잔을 들어 입 가까이 가져가면 차 향기에 시대를 거슬러 아득한 옛날로 돌아간다. 세월의 이끼를 잔뜩 머금은 오랜 절간의 동자승 닮은 팽주는 부드러운 눈을 잔에 고정하고 고운 손을 들어 천천히 빈 잔을 채운다. 차가 코에서 머물다 입으로 그리고 목젖을 스치며 돌아 내려가면 놓치지 않으려고 꽉 쥐고 있던 것들이 탁 떨어져 나가는 느낌이다. 왜 그리도 부질없는 것들에 집착했던고?

‘이런들 어떠하며 저런들 어떠하리.

만수산 드렁칡이 얽혀진들 어떠하리.’

다음 모임엔 보이차란다. 우주님은 커다란 보온 통을 들어다 올려놓을 것이고 팽주님은 보이차를 내 잔에 고운 손으로 따라주겠지. 그날엔 제대로 다도를 눈여겨 볼참이다.

다도를 모르면 어떠하며

좋은 글을 쓰지 못하면 어떠하리

성황당 뒷담에 기대어

만수산 드렁칡이 얽어지듯

친구들과 얽혀져 보이차를 홀짝홀짝.

Cosmos and Paengju

My friend’s husband, whom we call “The Universe,” quietly came up to the second floor. With a shy smile, he placed a big thermos full of hot water in the room and silently went back downstairs. We call his wife “Paengjoo,” a word that means someone who prepares and shares tea with great care.

Rain began to hit the windows, as if trying to wash away all the stickiness left behind from the summer. Inside the cozy room, I sat and watched the rain dance in the wind. Paengjoo poured tea into my cup. “What more could I want for?” I thought. All the worries of the world faded away.

When Paengjoo pours the tea, we hold the cup with both hands and drink it in three small sips. When the cup is empty, she gently pours more. She also served coconut macaroons, which were absolutely delicious.

On a rainy day, there’s nothing better than curling up like a cat in a warm corner, sipping tea and wine. That’s exactly my style.

To be honest, I didn’t even know what “Paengjoo” meant before. I can’t bake coconut macaroons either. I’m just a laid-back woman who enjoys the moment. There’s a Korean saying: “If you have no money, you’re just a drifter. But if you do, you’re a free spirit.” It’s funny, but kind of true.

Today’s gathering was with a few close friends for our writing group called “Mulpool”—which means “Water and Grass.” Just like the name, we let our words flow gently like water, or brush softly like grass in the wind. We read what we’ve written freely, and chat with no pressure. The tea tastes even better in this kind of mood.

I was feeling anxious—was I chasing time or being chased by it? But when I held the warm cup Paengjoo gave me, and smelled the tea, I felt like I had gone back in time.

Paengjoo reminded me of a young monk from an old temple, full of wisdom and calm. She gently looked at the empty cup and refilled it with care. As the tea touched my nose, mouth, and throat, I felt like all the things I had been clinging to just fell away. Why was I so obsessed with such meaningless things?

“What if it’s like this? What if it’s like that?

Let the vines twist around Man-su Mountain—so what?”

(An old Korean folk poem)

Next time, we’re having pu-erh tea. The Universe will bring the big thermos upstairs again, and Paengjoo will pour the tea into our cups with her graceful hands. Next time, I’ll pay more attention to the art of tea.

Even if I don’t understand tea ceremony well,

Even if I can’t write perfect stories—so what?

I’ll just lean against the old village wall,

Twisting together like vines on Man-su Mountain,

Sharing pu-erh tea with my dear friends.

부부간의 의리

“남편은 컴퓨터 자판도 두드릴 줄 몰라요. 이메일은커녕 북마크에 넣어 준 조중동(신문)만 볼 줄 알아요.”

라고 내가 말했다. 
“이메일은 간신히 할 줄 아는데 내가 죽으면 어떡하려는지 걱정이야.
선배님도 본인 남편에 대해 말했다. 
“별걱정을 다 하시네요. 남자들은 마누라 떠난 후에 젊은 여자 만나 더 잘 살 텐데요.”

남자들은 조강지처가 죽으면 싱싱하고 예쁜 여자 만나 ‘왜 이제야 만났냐!’ 며 천생연분인 양 알콩달콩 신혼살림 차린다. 그러나 많은 미국 노인들은 자신의 재산에 애착이 강해 새로운 여자 만나는 것에 대한 두려움이 있다. 그래서인지 동네 다이너에 가면 손을 덜덜 떨면서 혼자 끼니를 해결하는 노인들을 흔히 볼 수 있다.

친정엄마가 돌아가시자마자 우리 언니 또래의 여자가 어두컴컴한 골목에서 대기하고 있었다는 듯 화사하게 웃으며 등장했다. 혼자 외롭게 멀리 있는 아버지를 걱정하느니 젊은 아줌마와 행복하게 지내는 것이 나를 위해서도 다행이라며 반갑게 인사했다. 아버지는 갖은 정성을 다 쏟는 그녀에게 딸린 여러 명의 자식 학자금, 결혼 비용 심지어 이혼한 자식 재혼 비용까지 댔다. 나는 아버지의 행복을 위헤 장구 치는 옆에서 살살 북을 치지 않을 수 없었다.

아버지는 나름대로 우리에게도 최선을 다했고 내가 이만큼 살도록 물심양면으로도 많이 도와주셨지만, 엄마가 돌아가신 후 우리 여자 형제들은 찬밥신세가 되었다. 이런 기억을 안고 사는 나는, ‘나 살아생전에 남편과 아이들에게 최선을 다하자. 죽고 난 후, 나 없어도 세상은 잘 굴러갈 것이다. 그리고 남은 사람은 행복하게 살 권리가 있다.’라고 생각하며 산다.

단, 살아생전 모은 재산의 반은 내 몫이다. 남편 몫이야 젊은 여자에게 쓰든 말든 내 몫만은 내가 원하는 곳에 써줬으면 하는 바람이다. 그러나 남자들이 젊은 여자에게 미치면 물불 가리지 않을뿐더러 여자 또한 더 많은 재산을 차지하려는 것이 요즘 아니 늘 있었던 세상인심 아닌가! 누구 말처럼 반만년 찌들어 살다 진짜 돈맛을 보고 모두 돈돈하면서 환장하는 시대 아닌가?

리빙트러스트를 만들었다. 부부 중 하나가 가고 나면 남은 사람에게 전부 남겨지는 것이 아닌, 몫의 반만 받는 것으로. 그러나 그건 세상 뜨고 난 후의 서류상의 일이다. 이런저런 골 아픈 서류처리를 늙은 마누라인 내가 컴퓨터로 다 해결해주니 남편은 과연 행복할까? 

그냥 부부간의 행복했던 기억이 서로의 바람을 저 버리지 않는 의리로 연결되리라 믿고 싶다. 아버지가 엄마에 대한 의리로 재혼만은 마다했듯이.

Marital fidelity

“I don’t think my husband even knows how to type on a keyboard. He can’t use email. The only thing he knows how to do is open the news websites I bookmarked for him,” I said.

Another woman replied, 

“Well, at least my husband barely knows how to check his email. But honestly, I worry—what would he do if I die first?”

Then I added, “Why are you worrying? Most men live even better after their wives pass away. They meet younger women and feel like newlyweds again!”

It’s true—when a man loses his first wife, he often ends up with a young and pretty new partner, acting like she’s the love of his life. But in America, many older men are very attached to their money. They’re afraid of dating again. That’s probably why you often see elderly men at diners, eating alone with shaky hands.

When my mother passed away, a woman around my older sister’s age suddenly showed up—almost as if she’d been waiting in a dark alley for the moment. She appeared with a bright smile. I welcomed her, thinking, "It’s better for my father to be happy with someone than to be lonely."

My father gave her everything—his time, love, and even helped pay for her children’s education, weddings, and even remarriages. I couldn’t help but support him like someone softly playing a drum next to a drummer—trying to make him feel encouraged. To be fair, my father also did a lot for us. He helped me emotionally and financially so I could live well. But after Mom passed away, we—the daughters—became less important.

That experience taught me something: 

“While I’m alive, I should give my best to my husband and children. After I’m gone, life will continue just fine without me. And the people I leave behind have the right to be happy.”

But—half of the money I saved while alive is mine. Whatever my husband does with his half, even if he spends it on a young woman, that’s his choice. But my half—I want it used where I choose.

Still, let’s be honest. When men fall for younger women, they lose control. And those women often want more and more money. That’s not just today’s world—it’s always been that way. Like people say, after suffering for 5,000 years, now that they’ve tasted money, everyone’s going crazy about it!

So, I made a living trust. If one of us passes away, the other will only receive half the estate—not all of it. But honestly, that’s just a paper decision after death. Meanwhile, here I am, the aging wife, doing all the computer work to set this up. I wonder—Is my husband even truly happy?

Still, I want to believe that our happy memories as a couple will stay with us—and that loyalty will last. Just like my father, who stayed loyal to my mother and never remarried.