I was so young my fingers still like Soondae, my skin layered waiting to unfold over my growing limbs. The whites of my eyes lost behind the black of my lashes crisscrossing the lower. Like a censure. God says, “Not yet. Don’t be disappointed yet. Take this gradual. You’ll be critical having just left perfection.” Life begins now.

I couldn’t speak but I could respond. Un, that was enough. I can’t be critical now, He whispers to me. Take it slow. All I knew was Grandma, the first and last to pat me, to hold me and love me, to take me outside, to walk me around the neighborhood. She fed me Jjajjang-myun. She talked to a mute from day to night about her hard life and about this hard world. Warning me, don’t be critical yet, it gets better. It gets better.

I only see Mom yelling. Otherwise she is not there. She is off somewhere I cannot imagine. She is not in my movie, so she is not an important character. When I see her, I see Dad and Grandma frowning. I do not like her. She is not much of a character. Don’t be critical yet, not yet.

I wake up and I see Mom holding me, whispering to me. I think she is disturbing my nap and I start to cry. She takes me to the tub and begins to wash my feet and my hands. She talks to me. “This is what my mom did for me. This is how she showed me she loved me.” She cries. She washes my face with her tears. She gets up, the sun is not up. You should go to sleep. She leaves.

I am scared and I hide behind the dark staircase. I kiss the plastered walls, this world be nice to me. Be nice to me. I look at the ground. I stare at the blue painting. I think about my lost doll inside the white car under the black mats. Be nice to me. My mom is on the ground. She is crying. She is pounding the floor with her mangled fingers. Dried blood. I see Dad yelling and Grandma yelling. Stop yelling. It’s all Mom’s fault she deserves it. She deserves it. She deserves this.

I can’t sleep. I kick the walls, harder and harder. My knees feel stuffy, I kick the walls. Mom comes inside. Why are you here? She washes my feet and my hands. She talks to me. “This is what my mom did for me. This is how she showed me she loved me.” I cry. Mom is the first and last to pat me, to hold me and love me. God, my life.