Which meant waking
to the fragrant lullaby of crushed garlic,
grated ginger, and the subtle tang of salted cabbage.
Metal bowls clanging, pepper flakes tumbling–
the soothing cacophony of my fermented childhood.

It meant leaping
to the kitchen with sesame oil in hand,
slapping red rubber gloves onto calloused fingers,
rolling soft pajama sleeves up to ready armpits.
Before sunlight splashed onto our dining table,
we sat knee-deep facing a mountain of Napa cabbages,
fingers tinged with the vibrant crimson of gochugaru.

Making kimchi meant surrendering
myself to the rhythm of Halmoni’s motion
as she placed her coarse hand on top of mine,
swiveling through each cabbage leaf with a spoonful of paste,
gliding my fingers along its emerald veins.

“Watch and learn,” she’d whisper,
“The recipe is tucked in between your Korean hands.”

Making kimchi meant catching
Halmoni’s eyes beam with a golden hue.
With one stroke of a slippery leaf,
she flew halfway across the world,
selling kimchi with her mother in the bustling streets of Busan.

Making kimchi was meant to be
a continuous childhood
of smearing spicy paste onto each others’ lips,
of tracing my fingers along the etches of Halmoni’s palms.
Today she no longer recognizes her granddaughter’s face.

Making kimchi now means
waking to the unsettling serenity of a Saturday afternoon,
resting Halmoni’s shriveled palms on top of my steady hands,
gliding her fingers along its emerald veins,
still next to but not with Halmoni.