By: Joonsoo Yoon
The sweet-smelling smoke of burning incense wafted toward me, a soft drift that seemed to carry in the air. The two shinwi sat at the north of the table, obscured partly by the rising grey but still visible to my eyes; inside the memorial tablets sat my grandparents in black-and-white photos. They seemed so familiar, the gentle turn of their chins, their slightly upturned noses. It was impossible not to see the resemblance they held with me and the others of my family.
Steaming rice in traditional bronze with yuk-jeon (beef) and po (dried fish) sat on the west side of the table. Of course, the chopsticks were laid gently across the bowls, not into them, for that would be wishing death to my ancestors. At the south laid a wide variety of fruits, a mixture of the dripping red of apples, the soft yellow of pears, and the bright orange of persimmons. To the east were mul kimchi, fish-jeon, teokk (rice cakes), and namul (seasoned vegetables). Finally, in the middle were the three soups: Yuk-tang, So-tang, and Eo-tang, their steam rising in the air, mixing with the smoke of the incense.
As I kneeled on the wooden floor of my decade-long home, I kowtowed toward the shinwi three times, rising once after each bow and going back down to do another. My father and my brother did so as well, for it was our duty to honor these people.
When I stood from my bowing, I did not glance at the three others within my family who stood a foot away from me. A line was formed between us, a line that could not be touched, that could not be crossed. But they did not care, nor did I. My mother kneeled to the incense, raised the blue porcelain cup of rice wine, and gave it to my father. He kneeled once more, raising the cup before the incense sticks, and began to make an offering. He swirled the cup around, three times around the rising smoke, before he poured the rice once, twice, and then three times into the bowl that sat at the foot of the table.
My mother came to me next and handed me the rice wine. I took it within my hands, and when the tips of her weathered knuckles brushed mine, she paid no semblance and took her position once again away from me. I did not care either. I took the rice wine and began to offer. Once, twice, three times around the smoke, and then once, twice, and then three into the bowl.
After my brother did so as well, I turned, wordless, into the hallway that led to the front door. I did not wait for the others in my family and behind me, I could hear them inserting the spoon into the rice, upward and straight in the middle of the rice bowl. I walked to the end of the hallway and through the open door as I let the breeze of the afternoon wash over me.
As I felt the soft breath of the wind, I let my eyes rest for their small bit of respite. I ignored the hushed conversation of the others in my family as they moved past me into the yard, and just stood, letting the air caress my skin. There was not one moment, one instance of which signaled the arrival of their presence. There was no great blow of wind that would mark their arrival. But I knew they were there, for the air shimmered, the breeze hovered outside the door, and the wind itself seemed to whisper, enjoying itself among its remaining kin.
When we came back inside, we performed the ceremony bow twice more, all of us. We were then supposed to move the food into the next room, but our traditions had become lax. The three others in my family sat down, cleared the fruits away, and began to eat. They spoke in loud voices, rejoicing over the end of the ceremony and enjoying the blessings that would come from being of the same blood.
I did not move from outside the hallway, the line, and they did not seem to notice. A small chuckle, a small rumbling of sorts, left my throat: I was not supposed to stand there, for the ancestors would be unable to leave, back up into the heavens. As I looked in front of me, there was nothing, nothing but the emptiness of the home inside.
If the ancestors were standing in front of me, would they recognize me? Would they recognize their disgraced grandson of theirs, of whom would bring shame to the family? How would they feel, when their kin, the remaining of their blood, decided to follow the world of dreams and passions?
But as if the wind had heard me, a small gust of air brushed past me, caressing my skin, my face, with gentle fingers. I did not know where this wind had come from, nor how it had remained, but I let it stay, gentling my beating heart and calming my aching head. As the wind swept away, I turned around. I gave no heed to the sounds behind me, for I did not care. I moved, swept by the wind, into my room where I grabbed my pen and began to chase my dreams once more.