Halmoni Used to Say
Seoul, Republic of Korea
2024, Junior, Creative Writing
My grandmother once told me. It used to be that whenever people opened their bedroom windows, they would slowly inhale the bracing breeze of the fresh morning air. It used to be that whenever people gazed outside, they would see the entirety of the lofty skyscrapers, reaching towards the sky like proud daggers. It used to be that whenever people went for strolls early in the morning, the peace and stillness would be welcoming.
Not anymore. Now, when I open my bedroom window, I smell acrid odors of smoke. Now, when I take a look outside, I see half daggers shrouded by ominous clouds. Now, when I think of going on morning strolls, I hesitate, because of the daunting and unpredictable weather forecasts.
This morning, as I wake up, I strain my eyes to see through the hazy gray fog blanketing the city’s skyline as if some mighty force had smoked a bundle of cigars throughout the night. The ashen sky dismally greets me as I look out the glass windows of my apartment building.
Trudging out of the house to go to school, I reach into my bag and take out a mask labeled KF94, a long-established ritual in Korea by now. Even before the pandemic hit, we were used to wearing face masks. Covering half of my face, I feel a rush of relief and a sense of protection. Although the walk to school takes only ten minutes, my eyes sting from the acerbic tickle caused by the invisible fine dust particles hovering about the city skyline of Seoul. The ten-minute walk feels like an hour, as the mask is even more suffocating on an intensely warm April morning.
“Because of the hazardous air quality and unusually high temperature, outdoor break is canceled today.” My teacher apathetically announces as soon as I walk into the classroom. Not unusual. Outdoor breaks have been canceled more often these days. A few kids groan, some roll their eyes, and others seem indifferent to this typical declaration.
After seven hours of classes stuck indoors, school finally releases us, and instead of going to the park or the playground to play more, I instantly walk back home, once again shielding my precious respiratory system with a single piece of fabric.
“Halmoni!” My senile grandmother greets me with a gentle smile as she opens the front door; she has been my primary caretaker since my parents got divorced when I was three years old.
“Aga, help yourself to some apples.” My Halmoni still calls me aga, a word for “baby” in Korean although I’m attending high school in a few months. I sit at the table across from my Halmoni and give her a look of gratitude.
“Cough, cough.” Suddenly, Halmoni lets out a series of raspy coughs. She covers her mouth with her wrinkly hand and smothers the noise. The coughing does not stop, and Halmoni grasps her chest, her eyes tightly shut.
“Halmoni! Are you okay?” I run over to her and hold her body so that she doesn’t fall. Halmoni waves her hand, signaling me to go away.
“I’m fine, aga. I think I just caught a cold.”
Halmoni’s been coughing a lot lately, which is why I am very worried.
I sprint to the kitchen to boil her a cup of yuja tea. Halmoni used to boil me yuja tea, a type of traditional citrus tea, whenever I caught a cold. Cautiously, I hand Halmoni a cup of warm tea.
Her gaze is warm and glittery; with a closer glimpse, I sense the tears swelling up in the rims of her eyes.
“You are growing up so fast! I would’ve never imagined the day my granddaughter would ever be old enough to care for her old Halmoni…”
She looks down into her tea staring at her reflection for a moment. Plop. A teardrop creates ripples that temporarily distort Halmoni’s mirror image.
“Time flies…”
I faintly smile at her, but deep inside, I know she is very ill. No cold lasts that long.
That night, I cannot sleep due to the incessant coughing of Halmoni tormenting not only my ears but also my heart.
Out of nowhere, an ominous black whirlwind of dust swirls into my room and covers my face. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. Dark wraiths of clouds swirl around the buildings, drawing an insidious veil over the city skyline. The scorching atmosphere around me makes it feel like the sky is on fire. What’s happening? The Earth seems no longer safe.
I open my eyes and jolt out of bed. Was it a dream?
Seeking comfort from the ominous nightmare, I rush into Halmoni’s room. The raspy coughs have come to an end.
“Halmoni?”
Reflection
At first, I struggled to think of a personal climate story because I felt like climate change wasn’t affecting me drastically in my daily life. That’s when a thought struck me. If I can’t write about my own climate story, why not write about my country’s climate story? South Korea’s fine dust levels are severe. All Koreans know this. This problem of my country then inspired me to write about a fictional story in which a girl loses a loved one because of fine dust and climate change. I tried hard to incorporate the effects of climate change into my fine dust-based story, and in the end, I wrote a story of a girl who loses her one and only caretaker who is nostalgic about the past when the Earth was cleaner and healthier.