From the Sea
by
Rachel Noelani Bovee
This week, he loves the pink, furry blanket with smiling, floppy-eared bunnies. I spread it over him and scoop the edges under his small vibrating form. You yelled, and it hurt my feelings. Say you’re sorry, him in hiccupping Korean, and I say, I’m sorry, my boy, but it’s not right, it’s not enough. Not in English, say it in Korean, but I won’t.
I can, but I won’t, and instead dip a finger into the curl shading his creamy pale cheek, brushing it away from his brow. My blood, my body made his bones, these cheeks, these curls, the fingernails that are too long and need to be clipped (note: tomorrow). My brown skin, my thick bones, my broad shoulders, but he is long and lean and snowy-skinned against plush, rosy rabbits. My colonized-island ancestors, with rugged, seashell-sliced feet, haunting chants, and hands cracked from the sea, are his too, but he only knows taegukgi, kimjang, and Han.
He grunts and pouts, so I keep my smile soft and hold in teasing him for being rolled tight like a kimbap or pristinely tucked in like the steamed leaves of a laulau.
I’m sorry, my love, go to sleep, my son, keep the blanket tight - it’s cold, and tomorrow I will tell him about the gods and the goddesses, the red dirt and the rough waters, the warriors and the missionaries - another kind of Han.
I can, but I won’t, and instead dip a finger into the curl shading his creamy pale cheek, brushing it away from his brow. My blood, my body made his bones, these cheeks, these curls, the fingernails that are too long and need to be clipped (note: tomorrow). My brown skin, my thick bones, my broad shoulders, but he is long and lean and snowy-skinned against plush, rosy rabbits. My colonized-island ancestors, with rugged, seashell-sliced feet, haunting chants, and hands cracked from the sea, are his too, but he only knows taegukgi, kimjang, and Han.
He grunts and pouts, so I keep my smile soft and hold in teasing him for being rolled tight like a kimbap or pristinely tucked in like the steamed leaves of a laulau.
I’m sorry, my love, go to sleep, my son, keep the blanket tight - it’s cold, and tomorrow I will tell him about the gods and the goddesses, the red dirt and the rough waters, the warriors and the missionaries - another kind of Han.