Three “Shes”

My grandmother was illiterate.

She lived through World War II.
She lived through Korean War.
She survived hunger.

So she learned early—
how to cook, clean, and care for a family
by the time she was seven.

⸻

When I was seven,
she was teaching herself how to read and write Korean.

Years later, in the United States,
she learned enough English
to pass her naturalization test.

She was the smartest, bravest,
most fierce woman I have ever known—
a tigress in every sense.

⸻

To her, I was the future she never got to imagine.

But I was also a girl.

She said it plainly—
that I couldn’t carry the family name.

As if I had already fallen short
before I even began.

⸻

Still, she told everyone about me.

Every Sunday after church,
her friends would find me by the coffee station—

“I heard you did this.”
“Your grandma said you got good grades.”

I would turn and look at her.

She never said anything directly.

Just stood there—
eyes twinkling,
nodding quietly.

⸻

Somewhere along the way,
I stopped being just a girl to her.

I became the future she wished she had.

Without realizing it,
I began carrying her dreams—

every time I sat down
at a desk
and opened a book.

I became the life
she never got to live.

⸻

Sometimes I feel guilty—

that at seven,
she stood at a kitchen counter with a knife in her hand,
while I sat at a desk with a pencil.

But she didn’t survive
so I could carry her suffering.

She survived—
so I could inherit something else.

And I did.

⸻

I still carry it.

I still miss her.

I wish she could meet my Big Bear—
so she could see
what her dreams look like now.

할머니, 보고 싶다.