Kyung-ran Jo - Tongue

You have something I want. I want you to give it to me. It doesn’t matter now, but you’ve taken things from me .

Why are your legs trembling like that? Your legs are so long and gorgeous, like a flamingo’s. Are you nervous? Don’t be, you’re getting sweaty and damp. You forgot what I told you about how to harvest the perfect caviar? What’s that expression on your face? Is it shame? Or fear? You can’t show that kind of emotion on your face. I want you to be more comfortable. I wonder what it felt like when those legs were wrapped around him in my kitchen .

Tongue is the tastiest part of the whale and apparently it’s the same for a flamingo. I haven’t tried one yet. It’s so delicious that a Roman wrote about a flamingo, something like, My pink feathers gave me my name but gastronomes gave my tongue a reputation. There’s something very strange about the tongue. It seems perfect but superficial. But what comes out of the mouth comes from the heart, right? So if you promise something, you have to keep it. That’s what I want from you. The thing in your cavernous mouth, that .

ON FRIDAYS, patients participating in family therapy sessions write a short autobiographical piece and read it aloud. Usually it revolves around their childhoods or family history or the reasons they started to rely on alcohol—revealing intimate details of the patient. Uncle participated in other activities but never went to these meetings until today. I study Uncle’s face as he stands in front of strangers and reads his autobiography, condensed into two pieces of paper. I see fear, hesitation, sadness, and joy flitting across his face. What’s changed with Uncle? If Uncle was starting to rehabilitate in June, in July he’s reached the level of social adaptation. The third and last step. Some changes happen from the outside but some apparently occur from the inside. I wonder if the question he asked himself when he had the urge to drink was the catalyst for the change. Because asking yourself a question, a fundamental, unanswerable question, requires strong will and courage.

After the therapy session, we sit on a bench in the garden as always. Uncle has his hands linked behind his head, looking somewhere far away. Today may have been the first time he spoke about his wife in front of others.

“This flower, it looks like a cosmos,” I remark, pointing at a golden-yellow daisy in the flowerbed, a strong saturated sprinkling of saffron.

“I never knew yellow was that beautiful,” Uncle says in an embarrassed tone, frowning.

“Have you decided to forget her?” Is it because of the flower? The question I didn’t want to ask pops out.

“Do you think that’s what it is?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t tell.”

“How could I forget that person?”

That person. I try it after him, slowly.

“I’m just keeping her buried,” he continues. “That’s the only way I can move on. Because I don’t think she would want me to live like this.”

“Do you think love is like basil, Uncle?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I heard of a woman who couldn’t let go of her dead lover’s body. So she cut off his head and buried it in a plot under basil. She watered it with her tears but she died, unable to mend her broken heart. And from there bigger and fresher and more fragrant basil grew and people came from far away to look at it. So a woman loves a man, the man dies, the woman goes crazy, tears fall, plants grow—do you think it all boils down to that?”

“Not all love turns into that.”

“I don’t know what’s love and what’s true.”

“What I’m saying is, not all true love makes you lose your calm like that. It’s lunacy.”

“Lunacy means there’s an intense power, though.”

Uncle is silent.

“Love is intense, Uncle.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Basil makes the heart dizzy, too. So you can’t eat too much at once.”

Uncle glances at me and smiles bitterly. “I don’t know what went wrong.”

I hang my head. “Why did we end up like this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Uncle, I don’t understand it. We grew up peacefully eating apples and pears, raised by Grandmother, the best person in the world. But why did we both fail like this?”

“What do you think you’ve failed at? Love?”

I don’t speak.

“You haven’t failed at everything. It could be a small mistake, not a complete failure.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“Remember when we put a watermelon in the freezer to chill and forgot about it until the next day? We broke into it to throw it away because it was frozen solid, and remember how the ice crystals glistened, enough to make it starry in front of our eyes? It was amazing. If it wasn’t through a mistake we would never have seen such a thing.”

I remember. The sparkling, starlike ice crystals that made us cry out in amazement.

“And you haven’t failed. You’re always comforted by cooking.”

I’m quiet.

“Not everyone can be like that.”

“When did you become so sweet? It’s weird, Uncle.”

“…Because I’m scared.”

“What?”

“Of starting all over again.”

We’re silent for a moment.

“Uncle.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I’ll be here when the cosmos bloom.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to come up with a new way of cooking, from a peaceful and safe place, and not worry. Here, no matter what I make and eat I only feel sadness. I just want to be somewhere else.”

“Are you tired, or are you looking for something new?”

“Both.”

Uncle doesn’t tell me not to go or to have a good trip. He doesn’t ask when I’ll be back. As if he knows I’m blatantly lying. It’s not like that, Uncle. Why do people feel love and hate toward the most fundamental things? Why do I always feel sorrow even when I eat something delicious?

“I want to eat something made by your grandmother,” Uncle says, stretching.

“Me too.”

“You’ll make it for me when you come back, right?” Uncle turns his head to look into my eyes.

Of course . I nod. “Do you know what my favorite smell is?”

“What?”

“The smell of someone cooking for me.”

“Yeah, I think that’s the same for me, too.”

“Next time I think Mun-ju will be coming instead of me. That’s okay, right? And the salt you gave me, I think I’ll take it with me.”

“Okay.”

“But do you still need the washcloth?” I ask, narrowing my eyes mischievously.

“No, I’ll be leaving here soon.” Uncle gets up with me.

Farewells are always difficult. You can’t laugh and you can’t cry. It was the same way when Grandmother passed away. It was the same way when he left and when Paulie died. At the entrance to the hospital, Uncle kisses the top of my head. Then he says, Don’t forget that cooking is the one thing you can do with your two hands. That you can push yourself up from the ground with those hands.

As I walk away, I think of the question that Uncle asked himself that changed him and wonder what question I need to ask myself. If I couldn’t do it now, what would happen? If I didn’t leave now, what would happen? If I don’t talk about it now, what would happen?

These questions aren’t right for me at this moment. What I have to do now is what I already decided to do. There’s no reason to hesitate. You can’t understand everything about love or force someone to get it completely. I won’t ever be able to break free from this love, even if right now I think it’s what I need to do. If I were a fish I wouldn’t be able to think of myself as a separate being from water. Don’t hesitate, I encourage myself in a loud voice. I know that a train with flashing red lights is rushing toward me at full speed, sounding its horn. And that it will eventually overtake me.