Folklorn

by Angela Mi Young Hur

if a bunch of foreigners barged into your world, dragged your men away on dangerous expeditions, studied you like you were some alien, and demanded you explain every word you had for snow—wouldn’t you also run naked and dive into the frozen sea?

“Doors closing left and right, that’s what getting old feels like. In my twenties, it was physical, knowing all I’d never be—never a judo Olympian or running my own B-boy crew. In my thirties—never be a filmmaker, never publish a novel. Now it’s physical again. Never have kids, never visit Antarctica.”

I look at all of us on shore. A universe of mystery in each person. It doesn’t frighten me; it leaves me in awe. How sad it would be anyway, if all was solved and understood—what point would there be to look up at the stars? Or look at the face beside us?