Jung Ho Han, Auld Lang Syne

Auld Lang Syne

Jung Ho Han

I remember an old road that followed a creek by our apartment. The plan to fill it in had fallen through, and now it was safeguarded by the moss and the green. A week before my graduation I resolved to take an evening walk along its meanders.

Gaggles of children and wild grass vied to take over the side paths, but only one side had weaponized hay fevers. I knew enough the parlance of the creek to keep a respectful distance, but I could already hear the children conferring for another expedition.

A vegetable stand sat on the shoulder of the road, enveloped in the feathery leaves. Ears of corn and bundles of spring onions hung next to the bushes, nodding lazily at a rising wind. The ground was uneven with pebbles and grass, but the young attendant ignored the racket of the plastic chairs as they rabbled against the rocks. He said nothing, only nodding from his book as I returned his greeting.

Sometimes a tree would bend over by the creek to gather leaves of grass and paper alike. As I passed, an old woman was taking down a frayed flyer for a lost dog. We made eye contact, and for a moment we held each other in our gaze.

A scent of rain convinced me to take refuge in a small udon shop. A cook and a busker regaled each other with tales and circumstances. I settled in a corner, dozing off to distant conversations and the sound of an onset storm. There was yet much to walk, but I could wait. In this life, and the next, the road will be there.