If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,
you can let them touch you.
Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for.
Sometimes it is a bottle. A door. A sandwich. A Pulitzer. Another woman.
But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian.
Or a muse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack.
You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and nerves. Hair and sweat.
You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses.
"The only thing better than old memories is making new ones."
"How’s the moms? How she doing?"
"My mom? She’s doing alright."
"She’s gonna love me when she meets me. I’m going to talk to her in Korean and she’s going to love me."
"Babe…you don’t know any Korean though, except for the couple of words I taught you."
"Yes I do! When I meet her the first thing I’m going to say to her is ‘saranghaeyo’ (he said ever so phonetically that I had to process it to figure out what he said) and she’s going to love me!"
And I just smiled.
I never taught him how to say ‘saranghaeyo’ (which means ‘I love you’ in Korean). He looked it up on his own. It’s a simple phrase, but that small effort he took to try to get ready to speak to my mother to break the language barrier between them two, even if it’s for a second, that effort was priceless.