i am persistently reminded about the finalities of life. it is not something i invite willingly; as if i had the option to, at least. but there is something so enchanting about how i will always find a way to memorialize my past.
there was probably a point in my life that was my final pure being, the state of purity i can no longer recover. at least, not by myself. i think a great factor of my unmoving hatred is that i have always resented my mother. (my mother mother, i mean. the mother who gave birth to me.) but i wonder if i am truly resenting her vs. resenting the feeling she brings when i think about her– the pure agony of remembering and trying to be a separate being.
there is a faint notion that i am falling victim to my own biases. i have always been one to jump to conclusions and wreck everything i hold dearly. i speak in ink-tainted fallacies as a constant reminder that i am not pure, i am everything i stand against. i often call people hypocritical, but i think i myself am also, in a sense, the hypocrite i loathe so much.
i also think that a large part of existing as someone who has no memory of who they were or who they were supposed to be makes me the most fallacious being. finalities, finishing, and all things final are irrevocable. you cannot fix them- you cannot undo the final. there is only an “is” and “was”, and the “will be” is too far away to even fathom at that point.
see, i grew up trying to become somewhat normal. a mirror image of what i saw around me– but i couldn’t. i couldn’t be beautiful like the people i saw on the television. they had this smile that irked me and made me feel like my arm was being twisted and my heart was being crushed. i was, in essence, a star being shoved into a square hole.
i call myself korean but i don’t feel korean. i am not the korean person on the screen nor do i speak it fluently at all. only broken pleas for a mother and a father. and there’s a finality in that too– the sense that when i can patch together my mother tongue my pleas will finish. they will be irrevocable at that point and when you reach that point it suffices to say you have finished that chapter of your life.
my past constantly eludes me but i think i can live with it. i’ll just have to trace back to my roots, and maybe i can find who i am. but i can never undo it. it is still irrevocable and as such it is impossible for me to try to recover what could have been. after all, it is only a faint musing- and there is still only the “is” and “was”. “will be” is still too distant for me to fathom.
thanksgiving is almost an ode to winter; its cranberries ever so reminiscent of mistletoe and hollyberries. warm food with a forewarning of christmas ham or warm challah.
i've never been religious but there's something about thanksgiving and christmas that make me feel like there might be a God or something of the sort. after all, the world is full of the "might be"s so i wouldn't be surprised.
there is something so sacred about family coming to see you over the holidays.
i almost worship it.
november is so haunting that way. you feel as if there is still a last leaf to fall but the clouds and cold beg to differ. they scoff at the attachment (dependence?) to warmth we have.
and maybe this warmth is not so much a dependence or attachment but the need to have? desire goes a long way.
if God is real, i feel as if God, being just that; godly, is only ever felt by me in the winter seasons because of warmth. God tends to be associated with warmth and light: good, which is always something i think about around the holidays.
good is something ingrained and etched into almost every child. something about virtous actions, good, and this hope for warmth is reflected in our memories of holiday, we idolize warmth and goodness, and i cant help but think that God has something to do with that. just think about the attributes of christmas and other such winter holidays.
and back to that thing about thanksgiving and winter. today i went to my aunt's house like every time i've went for thanksgiving. but this time was different. the tree was already up, gloating its beautiful lights as it stood tall in the window.
maybe thanksgiving is not an ode to winter but a transition. that makes christmas the transition to the new year. infamously, i hate change- but maybe God loves it. so i suppose i will have to as well.
thanksgiving makes me believe in God because reuniting with family is a miracle. thanksgiving is a miracle because it is a transition to winter. winter makes me feel as if i am blessed.
Your beautifully written piece reminds me of one Thanksgiving when my family gathered at my grandmother’s house. The air was crisp, and her home was filled with the smell of roasting turkey and spiced cider. After dinner, we sat around the fireplace, sharing stories and laughing until tears came to our eyes. That warmth, both literal and emotional made me realize how special these moments of togetherness are.
