It was Korean Thanksgiving this past Thursday. I brought rice cakes, a traditional food eaten on Korean holidays, to my parents’ house for our family dinner.
It’s been a while since the four of us got together for a meal, so immediately my father brought out the soju and my brother a half empty bottle of Jack. My mom made a feast and my father talked, talked, talked. We decided over dinner to do a Vegas trip this weekend, another family tradition we haven’t done in a while. My mom had a dream about Obama eating her leftovers, and my father thought this as a sign of good fortune so he booked a suite for the weekend at Bellagio.
We finished eating and my mom brought out the rice cakes, delicately arranged on a tray. The phone rang and we let it go because it’s usually some credit card company calling to hassle my parents over late payments. But the ringing didn’t stop. My mom quickly grabbed a green rice cake and went to pick up the phone. It was my aunt, calling from Korea. My father’s older sister. Crying, she demanded to speak to my father.
My father hung up and sat on the couch. He was staring at some spot between the TV and the fish tank, taking quick heavy breaths. Then he started crying.
“Grandma died,” he said.
As the youngest of eight, he was always his mother’s favorite. No one said a word. No one even moved. My brother took another shot, then sat still again.
Then suddenly my father snapped up, told me to book the next flight to Korea for two, and told my mom to pack. I jumped to the computer as quickly as my mom pulled out the suitcase.
We all stayed up that night, my mom over packing, and my father repeatedly telling us everything we are to take care of while they are gone. I took them to the airport in the morning and came back to see the rice cakes, all but one untouched and hardened on the table.
