It Is What It Is Each morning, on her way to make a living, my mother passes that business, now closed, where— I’ve tried not to think of it— a man killed three Korean mothers just like mine. Her voice echoes, heavy, into the tunnel between us: What am I supposed to do? Be afraid? What am I supposed to do? In the tunnel between us, her voice echoes, heavy just like mine. A man killed three Korean mothers. I’ve tried not to think of it. That business, now closed. Where to make a life? My mother passes each morning on her way.
