Incheon

Im so sorry for my absence that I have 2 posts for y'all. Have fun.

Incheon

                We haven’t eaten in two days, not since we left P’yonggang. Our food, the little scraps of rice and meat we had left, is wrapped neatly in my white cotton scarf at the bottom of Umma’s bag. I smelled it last night, its rich nourishing aroma infused with a lingering tinge of garlic just the way Umma makes it – or at least I dreamt I did. We had just gotten there, to the silver skies and golden streets of Incheon and we feasted on freedom. We ate so much rice and beef and drank so much corn milk that now, when I think of Incheon, all that comes to my mind is the silky flow of corn milk on my perched tongue.

                We haven’t seen any light since we climbed into this rice truck for Incheon; at least that is what Appa called it. He said that it is taking us away from the torture of the North into the promise of the South. There were no bags of rice in the truck though, just children and Ummas and Appas.  Just faces – eyes shimmering even in this impenetrable darkness, clinging to the little hope that was left.

                We haven’t heard anything other than the smooth tormenting sound of tires on a road that never seems to end. No one has spoken, not since we were instructed to remain silent, that at any time, the Northern soldiers may stop the truck. I’ve waited for them every second now, so that at least I can hear their strong hash voices filled with power and hate, so that I know I haven’t forgotten what voices sound like.

                I know we would eat again and dine in with the finest wood and in the finest kitchen in all of Incheon. I think we would finally see again – finally see the light, joy and happiness which have been missing since the war ended. I hope, we would hear again – the tune of children playing, the rhythm of swaying trees dancing in the wind and the harmony of families together, families like mine in our new life of freedom. Our new life in Incheon.