Odori’s Grandfather A miniature by O Chŏnghǔi

Translated from the Korean by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton

“Hey, Odol! School’s out?” We were on our way home when we heard this. Odori’s grandfather, crouched on the roof of their home and framed by jumbled white clouds streaming through a blue sky, was looking down at us. The prickly autumn sunlight glanced off the orange slate of the roof.

“Look–your grandfather!” The kids pointed at the man and giggled. Odori’s face turned red.

“Grandfather,” Odori called out, his face crinkling, “please come down–we don’t want you to fall!” 

Seeing his grandfather rise precariously, Odori shot through the gate. His uncle, shirtless and clutching the waist of his reserve-uniform pants, came rushing out. His face was flushed–drinking so soon? 

“Hold it steady!” Uncle shouted to Odori before scrambling up the ladder resting against the edge of the roof. In no time, Uncle had helped Grandfather down. Squeezed between Uncle’s armpits, Grandfather wiggled his arms free and giggled.

“Run along, kids, the show’s over!” Uncle barked as he gave the ladder a kick. The cobalt blue sky had come together now that Grandfather was no longer part of it.

Odori’s grandfather was senile. He liked to giggle to the flowers and the clouds and even holler to the drain rats with a full-moon grin, “Hey kids, what’s the rush?” He would chase after Odori’s mom saying, “Hey, sweetie, time for bed, let’s go in!” If he then took her hand she would deflect him with an excuse—the laundry or the dishes–before fleeing to the back yard or into the kitchen.

Odori’s grandfather wasn’t the only village senior experiencing senility. Chŏng’ogi’s grandfather didn’t like wearing clothes. His family tied a pair of mitts over his hands to prevent him from removing his underwear. The mitts give him the appearance of a boxer. After Kwanghǔi’s grandmother went on a diet of boiled cat hoping to cure her chronic arthritis she took to crawling along the ground and meowing. Inja’s grandmother liked to hunch up beside the sunny gate. When Inja tried to coax her inside she would say, “Miss, I’m waiting for Hondada.”

“Who’s that?”

“Hondada, the soul man.”

“Where is he?”

“Over there.”

“What does he look like?”

“He looks like the soul man.”

The grownups would say, “Maybe Hondada is the messenger from the underworld. Or maybe her long-deceased twin sister. Or maybe her late husband? Or a wandering ghost?” With a nod they would add, “Maybe she’s ready now.” Then mention someone familiar—a dead parent, a sibling, a childhood friend—who would accompany her to ease fears of the final journey. Inja’s grandmother disappeared one spring day. She must have followed the soul man.

A large mirror hung from the wall of the veranda in Odori’s home. The mirror held the yard and the long path to the gate. As well as the blue sky and the white clouds. Passersby and dogs too. The path in the mirror led somewhere far away. The ladder was removed, and Odori’s grandfather could no longer go up to the roof. Instead he kept trying to enter the mirror. But when he slammed into it, his forehead left bleeding from the broken glass, Odori’s mom covered it with paper. With the mirror out of sight, Odori’s grandfather felt that his access to the world was gone too. He would hover before the mirror looking as if he had lost his way.

One night, I came out to pee in the ditch and heard a shout. On the roof of Odori’s brightly lit house white clothing fluttered and a voice hollered, “Pooooook!” announcing that someone had departed for the heavens. The cry rent the darkness and trailed off into distant obscurity. The neighbor houses, waiting breathlessly, it seemed to me, then lit up one after another.

Odori’s grandfather turned into a bird. This we knew after his passing, from the print of a bird’s foot in the first serving of rice to honor his life. A long winding mark was associated with a snake or a centipede, a four-foot print with a toad. If indeed he had turned into a bird, he would perch on a branch and chirp while keeping an eye on his family gathered around the meal table. But a snake, centipede, or toad was a confirmation of a person’s sins, and he would take cover in darkness while keeping the house and offspring safe. 

Odori’s mom removed the paper covering the mirror. The house looked brighter and larger. The yard and the path to the gate, the vegetable patch outside the gate, the sky, the endless passage beyond–all returned to the house by way of the mirror.

O Chŏnghǔi translated by Bruce and Ju-Chan Fulton

Image: Pixabay.com – Ornate mirror with etched glass and a dark from patterned with leaves and flowers