1. “when i was a little girl, we used to pick raspberries on the way to school,” my mother says one summer morning. i hadn’t heard this sort of hope in her voice before, like she’s imagining something softer, something warm. it’s shocking, coming from a woman like her. she tells me the story in full, but the tart juices of an invisible raspberry on my tongue take me to a land i will never know. the ever-present hum of cicadas sounds like childhood laughter. for a sliver of a second, my mother is replaced by the girl she once was. “that was when korea was safer, though.” the memory fades. the fever breaks. my mother returns with some cut-up apples on a plate, skin still intact.

2. how do you grieve someone who isn’t dead? i see her in dark floral prints and short curly hair. mention of her name strikes me something cold and visceral—like she’ll strike me down at any minute— and it hurts. it hurts because i am searching for something that won’t happen, or something so miniscule i wouldn’t even recognise it if it blew smoke in my face. how funny, how i’m searching for signs of her second coming, as i still worship her for the not-dead thing that she is— 

she’s still at the playground. she’s still kissing me. i don’t think she ever stopped.