She’s finally ready to explore the physical world for the first time, but something is missing and it’s the final piece to reconcile her two metaphysical worlds.

We romanticize things that we can’t experience. Forgive my romanticization of the airport since I’ve never been inside one. Gray sweatpants loosely hang on my hips as I curl up on one of those big, blue chairs. I’m listening to Frank Ocean from my pirated Spotify playlist and taking Polaroids of the families going on their excursions. 

There’s a small girl planted on a pale blue suitcase giggling as her father rushes past me. Her brother strolls by while carrying their mother’s purse. She playfully rolls her eyes, links arms with her son, and shares her croissant with him. 

Sunlight shines through the ceilings and illuminates the marble floor. Hundreds of people pass by, adding to the rush of adrenaline that pounds through my blood. 

I close my eyes and imagine myself in Italy, exploring my map of aqueducts and taking pictures of different cathedrals. My Italian is subpar, but I promise myself to figure that out once I get there. I walk through fields of dandelions, letting my sundress fly freely behind me. At night, I meet a curly-haired boy on the opposite side of the railroad tracks and he signs his number to me. We meet at the intersection and continue this exhibition of happiness together: jumping across rocks that lie on top of the pond, sharing a gnocchi dish we picked up at a corner restaurant, falling asleep under the moon with our hands intertwined, his stroking mine when we wake up. I untangle myself from him, grab my belongings, and continue on my journey alone. 

Now I’m in Japan, visiting my brother, who’s making cat-shaped onigiris. I haven’t seen him in at least seven years, but it’s like I’ve never met him in my life. The permanent creases in his forehead have disappeared, and his fingernails, once bitten down to the cuticle, are fully grown. He doesn’t flinch away from my touch, and has a glint in his eye as he humbly boasts about this new life. He’s finally accepted in this city of technology, surrounded by people who finally understand his speech impediment and preference of anime over social interaction. He reminds me to visit the Nomazaki Lighthouse, where I spend hours looking for the lock he signed when he moved here years ago. 

As I climb up the stairs, I marvel at the never-ending horizon. There’s a salty breeze, and the wind makes hollow sounds through my ears as I take in the scenery. Alone at the top, I try to compensate for the peace I couldn’t have earlier. 

My world was chaos. I considered days when there wasn’t an incessant ringing in my ears or the constant screaming outside my muffled pillow, or days when I felt someone else’s pain rip out a piece of my heart, peaceful.

I close my eyes and try to hear the ocean’s song. The shining sun and refraction from the clouds cause phosphenes in the shape of anchors, and I open my eyes in confusion. 

I’m standing in front of a small townhouse. There’s an outdoor bath, and a patch of farm next to the house. In the distance, I can hear the honking of cars and can see the industrialized city of Seoul blooming in the background. This part of town, however, is abandoned. Outside of the wooden door, sitting on a rotting bench, I see a small child crying in the arms of her parents. 

It’s almost impossible to recognize them, but of course it’s them. The frizzy, poorly-box-dyed hair on my mother as she pushes her glasses closer to her face. The same Polo Ralph Lauren navy shirt my dad seems to be wearing in every single memory I have of him from my childhood. 

This means that the baby they hold is me, but how can that be? The diamond under me turns into sand, which pulls apart and re-forms to create the one word: 희망. Hope.

 I look back at my parents, who are significantly younger than they are now, and see an unfamiliar spark in their eyes. They’ve reunited in South Korea, speaking a language that they understand and sitting amongst people who understand them. They’re college graduates who hold stable jobs, and are hopeful for a future that they can control. 

I land right back at home. I sit up, hearing the conductor call for my flight. “Flight 1004. 14:35 to Identity.”

I run with my suitcases clanging on the floor behind me. There’s only one seat on the plane—the rest of the cabin is filled with photos of my past. 

The image of the baby and my parents remains in the innermost corner of my mind, but I keep on moving forward. Our journeys have forked to two different realities. I’ve accepted that certain things are out of my control, including the power to change the family I was given. One day, we will reconvene in a happier place. For now, however, I gather all the moments and people that have made me who I am, excited to explore the destinations life has yet to take me.

Performance

Process

This piece started off very differently, and I had hoped to write something more realistic and personal because personal memoirs seem to be the writing style I gravitate towards. However, my mentor Morgan encouraged me to write fiction and I decided to give it a try. Little did I know how far the fantastical world would go for me, and how personal it ended up being.