Story—Etymon

^{translated from the Korean by Stine An}

      Grandmother would sing now and then while pulling
yarn from a skein. I try to remember her song. Grandmother
gazing at me gently. The threads of yarn crossing over from
here to there. The yarn slowly, slowly loosening. The yarn
winding round and round. Something slackens and swells
in equal measure, and it seems as though Grandmother’s
song will never end. Merely carries on from here to over
there. The slender, gossamer spaces in between. My child. I
think I hear Grandmother’s voice. I bolt up and look around.
Outside the window, an old tree stands precariously. When
autumn arrives, the tree will shed all its leaves dangling
askant to reveal the tilt of its heart. Around then. I suppose
I did. I heard Grandmother’s voice. Was it a song like that. I
suppose it was. The kind that caresses your head.