una historia de mujer

That morning, I went to see my grandmother. Despite her age and the miserable weather, she was doing quite well — her face was glowing, her hands were warm, and she wore beautiful linen clothes. Seated on her reclining chair, she asked me what I was doing these days. I showed her the photos I took in Japan, including the one I took with my professor friends at a conference I had just attended. She smiled and patted my head affectionately. Before I left, I hugged her and kept looking back before closing the front door. Then, on my way home, I thought about a woman’s life — what had happened to me in my life, the choices I had made, and how I was dealing with the consequences. Through my writing, I tried to name the numerous pains inside me. It was a tough work of excavation — layers and layers of Han to be unveiled. Although it was a meaningful experiment, at times, I did not like having to confront such raw parts of my life. Sometimes, I didn't even want to let other people see it, because they might misinterpret it in a way I never intended. And yet, somehow, I did — I read it out loud in front of many strangers who did not know me at all. I tried very hard not to cry, many told me after my presentation. I smiled bitterly and skipped the grand dinner party to spend a quiet night on my own. What’s next? I wondered in the hotel bed. To be honest, though, that wasn’t my first line. In the darkness, I whispered: God, my plan ends here. I have nothing more to tell, nothing more to accomplish. I am here, simply here with my story. The story of a woman’s life.