Tin House: Finding Spells

Flash Fridays

Returned to Korea, the land that belonged once to you, owned you, lost you. And barely in my door, your luggage huddled between us like children dragged along and casting suspicion on new surroundings, you perch on my sofa and ask for the beach.

“I’ll take you,” I say

To the beach where your skin one June burned a red to rival the fire-washed kimchi sold at the market by wizened ladies wearing flowered visors—the same old ajumas who gave you potatoes, said to cover yourself with thin slices. “It will stop the burn,” they promised, and at first it did but the strips dried hard and clung to your skin, and you winced as I peeled them away.

Your eyes surrendered their thunder, fell placid as sea and sky all kissed and made up. You were mystified, converted, instant devotee to the church of the finding spell.


Writing of every kind is a way to wake oneself up and keep as alive as when one has just fallen in love.” –Pico Iyer