Message boards on my laptop illuminated my face, columns of white and yellow and red. I rubbed my forehead as I stared at a message from my friends from the States. I pressed my fingers to the keys and began to type.
“Want to come walking with us?”
My mom stood at the doorway into the small green bedroom, watching me as I lay on a similarly small green bed, fingers glued to the keyboard. I jumped in my skin, whipping my eyes away from the screen towards her; she was dressed in leggings and a puffer vest.
“Do I have to?” I asked. It was six in the morning; I had just pulled an all-nighter.
“Yes, since you’re awake,” she responded before walking deeper into the condominium, purposely leaving the door open so I either had to close it myself or follow her.
I groaned, slamming the laptop screen shut before swinging myself off the bed. I glanced groggily around a few times before finding my own pair of leggings and a t-shirt. I changed quickly, leaving my pajamas on the floor to spite my mom, and I left the room.
My grandfather was standing there next to my mom, in a similar puffer jacket. They stood the same, their heads high and posture straight. It was like watching a mirror as they talked and moved aside to let me put my shoes on. They talked to each other in Korean because my grandfather didn’t know any English. I couldn’t understand anything they were saying, so I stayed completely silent.
We descended from the twelfth floor of the condominium complex before beginning our walk. It was a relatively quiet morning once we set out onto the main road; very few people – particularly the elderly – would walk by us with boxes or other heavy objects. At first, I was confused, but my mom explained to me that they were working. Older Koreans in the area did not have the luxury that my grandparents did to walk leisurely in the mornings.
We walked, swirling around playground areas and office buildings. The sidewalk was too far from the edge of the cliff for me to properly see the lake stretching alongside us that eventually led down towards the farmlands.
A few Kia and Hyundai cars sped past on the nicely paved road beside us, ignoring how close my mom was to the edge. She moved away soon after and struck up a conversation with my grandfather again. Although I couldn’t completely understand, I pieced together that she was enjoying the nice day. The rest of the walk was mostly a blur; I remember how steep the path was and the strain on my frail body, paired with the occasional eyeing up of the lake every now and then to try to get a better look at the ripples in the water. When we went out for a walk a few days prior, I managed to get a proper look at the flowing water. It was crystal clear, completely translucent to the point where I thought I could stick my hand into the water and it would come back dry – as if it were air. The only thing that reminded me of the water atop the rocky lake bottom were the minnows. They rushed down the stream as quickly as they came, bundled together to cut through the resistance of the water. It surprised me to see fish sweep through the water as if they were flying in the air, but it was captivating. I would have touched the water if not for all the government-regulated signs surrounding the area.
As if she could read my thoughts, my mom said to me, “You can’t touch the water. I know how pretty it is, but it’s for drinking and the fields.”
After 30 minutes of walking, a large cement structure came into view. It was distant and uphill, causing my shins to flare in pain and my lungs to heave with each breath. My mom pointed ahead to a modest-sized red pavilion that overlooked the lake. The pavilion itself was circular, forming a dome at the top with intricately, swirled designs resembling redwood. Once we arrived, I noticed that benches lined the inside; I sat myself down, sliding my legs through holes in the railing toward the exterior of the structure. Stone and wood were the only things holding me from a 16 meter drop into the waters below. The rocks shone like gems towards the shallow ends of the lake bed. The large tan concrete structure neighboring the pavilion was a dam and water treatment plant.
“Dam, Mom,” I said while pointing to the flawless stone structure in front of us.
Her eyes went wide, staring at me as if I cursed. I waited a moment for her to realize what I was referring to, and she started laughing. It was rare to hear. She always seemed so stressed, and the sound was ethereal to my childhood self. She pressed her index finger to her thumb and reached towards my forehead, flicking the center, I squeaked, reaching for it reflexively.
“Don’t say that again. Let’s head back,” she said as she put a hand on my back, pushing gently to coerce me to my feet.
I don’t remember properly turning back, I don’t remember getting back to the condominium, and I barely remember leaving Korea a week later. Yet, I remember that intersection of my world and the dam. I remember my love for the water and the inability to properly touch or immerse myself in it. I remember my mom’s laugh, a sound I’ve only heard a few times since.
My memories of Korea are renewed every few years when I revisit, but the impact of the first time had never compared to the rest. The water isn’t exactly how I remember; it doesn’t look like air, but it is still vibrantly clear and clean. Regardless of my flawed memory, the tranquility of being in a place where no one understood me and I could not understand them, created a true peace alone in nature.
Dana Lynch is a computer science and English double major at Pennsylvania State University. She is an avid writer and hopes to someday escape the desk job lifestyle and write fiction for a living. For now, she can be found buried underneath coding projects and writing submissions at a State College local coffee shop near you.