Photo by Eugene Golovesov
The Winter That I Wanted
Wynn Ahn
Those who always want will never be satisfied.
My grandmother’s words were engraved into my mind as surely as the calluses on my knees (Kneeling is the polite way to sit, Sunhye). The wooden floor was too hard and the words were too harsh. But I never protested. I was a good granddaughter. There was no disobedience to be found in my eyes, no noisiness in my movements.
Her house taught me to be so. At the edge of the ocean, full of the smell of sea spray and drying fish laid out by the town fishermen, the century-old house consumed the parts of me that said otherwise. I sat on the deck on clear nights, feeling the wind blow cold and salty through the wooden pillars. The hanji-lined doors barely kept out the chill, anyway.
Those who die unsatisfied will become ah-gwi, unrelentless starving demons, and devour everything in their path. They will never find peace.
I sometimes imagined that an ah-gwi would come after me. Pale, distorted, mangled. Jump out from behind the fence to swallow me whole in its terrible mouth. The waves crashed so loudly at night, I wouldn’t notice at the last minute. My grandmother slept early; her room was unreachable after sundown. I could never bring myself to knock on her door, for I was not supposed to want.
But I did want. And oh, how it tormented me. I wanted to sink my spoon into the warm rice before my grandmother did (Never move before your elders, Sunhye). I wanted to run in muddy puddles (Are you going to wash your own clothes?). I wanted to see my mother’s face once again (What has she ever done for you? Ungrateful child.) She’d gone with the cold wind; I didn’t even remember when. I suppose she’d wanted her own things.
I wanted, for I was my mother’s daughter, and my grandmother’s granddaughter. Blood didn’t disappoint.
The day I knocked over a stray pot in the living room, my grandmother’s spirit left her body. The two events had no connection, of course, but her ashen face went much the same way as the shattered porcelain. The wind blew colder than ever as I bent over her body. The hanji door swung open above the deck.
Do not die unsatisfied, Sunhye. It is a terrible curse.
They said children shouldn’t be at her funeral, nor any funeral in the first place. But I was the only one there. I sat in the basement funeral hall of the hospital the EMTs had rushed her to. Heart attack. She was eighty-seven. She’d died a good death, they said. She must have wanted to live for as long as she could. Stick around for that poor kid, sitting in the funeral hall alone, her black mourning clothes swallowing her body.
The hospital’s catering staff gave me lunch on the second day of the funeral. I knelt on the linoleum floor–cold, but less rough than the wood back home–and picked up my spoon. I had no one to wait for now. The rice was warm in my mouth, just like I’d always dreamed. It was sweeter than any rice I’d tasted. The pressed meat was the best in the world.
I couldn’t stop eating. I shoveled in the food like I hadn’t touched any in a decade. My grandmother’s voice rang in my ears. Those who die hungry become an ah-gwi. Her face was always gaunt and pale, her fingers ever-sharp beneath her rings. I felt her hunger in my soul. I felt her. I was her.
Adults in mourning clothes came to drag me away. Possessed, they whispered. Children’s spirits are weak. Everyone knows that funerals are no place for them. Get the shaman in here, we’ll find someone to pay for the exorcism. Just look at this child. Possessed, the poor thing. Their grandmother, that wicked, wicked woman. She cursed her own granddaughter on her way to hell.
My vision tunneled into a blur of linoleum and black shoes and large hands. I felt cold, even though there was no wind in the basement. I ached. I wanted. Always, wanted, wanted, wanted, for more. Never to be satisfied. It was always in my blood.
Wynn Ahn
Those who always want will never be satisfied.
My grandmother’s words were engraved into my mind as surely as the calluses on my knees (Kneeling is the polite way to sit, Sunhye). The wooden floor was too hard and the words were too harsh. But I never protested. I was a good granddaughter. There was no disobedience to be found in my eyes, no noisiness in my movements.
Her house taught me to be so. At the edge of the ocean, full of the smell of sea spray and drying fish laid out by the town fishermen, the century-old house consumed the parts of me that said otherwise. I sat on the deck on clear nights, feeling the wind blow cold and salty through the wooden pillars. The hanji-lined doors barely kept out the chill, anyway.
Those who die unsatisfied will become ah-gwi, unrelentless starving demons, and devour everything in their path. They will never find peace.
I sometimes imagined that an ah-gwi would come after me. Pale, distorted, mangled. Jump out from behind the fence to swallow me whole in its terrible mouth. The waves crashed so loudly at night, I wouldn’t notice at the last minute. My grandmother slept early; her room was unreachable after sundown. I could never bring myself to knock on her door, for I was not supposed to want.
But I did want. And oh, how it tormented me. I wanted to sink my spoon into the warm rice before my grandmother did (Never move before your elders, Sunhye). I wanted to run in muddy puddles (Are you going to wash your own clothes?). I wanted to see my mother’s face once again (What has she ever done for you? Ungrateful child.) She’d gone with the cold wind; I didn’t even remember when. I suppose she’d wanted her own things.
I wanted, for I was my mother’s daughter, and my grandmother’s granddaughter. Blood didn’t disappoint.
The day I knocked over a stray pot in the living room, my grandmother’s spirit left her body. The two events had no connection, of course, but her ashen face went much the same way as the shattered porcelain. The wind blew colder than ever as I bent over her body. The hanji door swung open above the deck.
Do not die unsatisfied, Sunhye. It is a terrible curse.
They said children shouldn’t be at her funeral, nor any funeral in the first place. But I was the only one there. I sat in the basement funeral hall of the hospital the EMTs had rushed her to. Heart attack. She was eighty-seven. She’d died a good death, they said. She must have wanted to live for as long as she could. Stick around for that poor kid, sitting in the funeral hall alone, her black mourning clothes swallowing her body.
The hospital’s catering staff gave me lunch on the second day of the funeral. I knelt on the linoleum floor–cold, but less rough than the wood back home–and picked up my spoon. I had no one to wait for now. The rice was warm in my mouth, just like I’d always dreamed. It was sweeter than any rice I’d tasted. The pressed meat was the best in the world.
I couldn’t stop eating. I shoveled in the food like I hadn’t touched any in a decade. My grandmother’s voice rang in my ears. Those who die hungry become an ah-gwi. Her face was always gaunt and pale, her fingers ever-sharp beneath her rings. I felt her hunger in my soul. I felt her. I was her.
Adults in mourning clothes came to drag me away. Possessed, they whispered. Children’s spirits are weak. Everyone knows that funerals are no place for them. Get the shaman in here, we’ll find someone to pay for the exorcism. Just look at this child. Possessed, the poor thing. Their grandmother, that wicked, wicked woman. She cursed her own granddaughter on her way to hell.
My vision tunneled into a blur of linoleum and black shoes and large hands. I felt cold, even though there was no wind in the basement. I ached. I wanted. Always, wanted, wanted, wanted, for more. Never to be satisfied. It was always in my blood.