My Grandma remembers my name 

is what I tell myself when she calls me Nate, 

my cousin’s name.

Her laugh echoing through my mind 

as we all sit at the brightly lit dinner table. 

Plates of delicious kalbi and soondubu jjigae

lie over the table,

a blanket of deliciousness. 

It was one of those nights 

where the normally artificial harsh, bright lights 

give off a warm comforting glow. 

Foods that many people would call foreign

 and strange, I call them delicious. 

My Grandma playfully slaps me on the shoulder 

saying, “Aigoo, don’t test me, I know your name!” 

My Dad erupts into laughter with his echoing belly 

laugh filling the room, contagiously

making us all burst into giggles. 

My cheeks begin to ache from smiling

so much; my grin permanently set onto my face. 

My sister turns her head with a mischievous smile

 creeping across her face. She asks lightheartedly, 

“Hey, Halmoni, what is my name?” 

We all tease our grandmother about it, but deep down 

somewhere deep in the recesses, we know confidently. 

that she remembers…

deep

deep

down

wrapped in delicate butcher paper and twine.

It’s been a year since she’s been home. 

Stuck in limbo during the pandemic, 

on a trip to see Uncle that went

awry due to Covid. A year later, she is back.

Sometimes I forget

the moments we shared. Like midst,

they are there for an instant, so real, then

gone forever.

My sister’s favorite movie, Ferris Buller buzzes in the background as we eat.

Charlie Brown like “wha wha wha” echoes in the kitchen.

Suddenly,

 “Life moves pretty fast sometimes,

 if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you'll miss it.” 

My eyes dart toward Halmoni, her paper thin skin, pale but glowing.

She smiles and her eyes crinkle into have moons.

I pause, squeeze her hand, mirror her crinkles back, and exhale slowly.