Free The Calligrapher's Daughter by Eugenia Kim Page B

will always be standing outside of.”
    She patted my hand beside hers on the bed. “Do you remember how the palm trees sprouted from the lake in the dream?” A shiver ran up my back and became needle pricks down my arms. I looked at her fully, and my eyes rounded and fused with the warm blackness of her pupils. “Yes, my daughter, that was a dream of your brother. I knew when you touchedme that you had seen the same vision. I dreamed of those palm trees many times when he was inside me. The first time was the night before your first day of school. That day was a double blessing for us.”
    I remembered that the trees seemed like long legs, so it made immediate sense that they would symbolize males. “That’s how you knew he was a boy.”
    “Yes, and for you too. In my fourth month with you, I dreamt of catching a small white fish between my hands as I waded in a lovely stream, so cool, so fresh, so clean. Such a beautiful little fish, it made me laugh in my dream and I woke up laughing! That was you.” She took my hand, and I felt as close and safe as if snuggled underneath her quilt beside her. I was made full and whole in her love, and she didn’t let go of my hand for a long time.
    “Dongsaeng was the trees?” I asked, and she nodded. “But why is there water in both dreams?”
    “Men need water to live, but they cannot move as it does. Women are like the water that flows, feeds and travels over and under man’s two feet stuck solidly in the earth. We are liquid. It is from us that he emerges, drinks and grows. And so,” said Mother, brushing aside my hair sprouting wildly from restless braids and bronze combs, “when your father seems gruff, I want you to remember this. Women are especially blessed in a way that men can never grasp. Keep God’s love in your heart and remember this always.”
    “Yes, Umma-nim.” I clasped my hands tightly together in my lap, to prevent the secret of water from leaking between my fingers.

Ten Thousand Years!

    MARCH 1, 1919
    THROUGH AN UNDERGROUND WEB OF LETTERS AND COURIERS, NEWS reached the men of the church that the nationwide demonstration for independence would be moved to the Saturday three days before Emperor Gojong’s funeral. Japanese troops had been mobilizing in Seoul to control the large expected crowds, and staging the protest on March 1— Sam-il —instead of March 4, would catch them off guard. I was excited to hear this news. Since mission schools were closed on Saturdays, it increased the likelihood that Father would allow me to witness Gaeseong’s demonstration. The day dawned dry, temperate and full of conviction. Branches tipped with flower buds and bursting leaves shone in the crisp morning sun. The tender pinks and baby greens of new growthattracted masses of birds, whose happy chirps and trilling made the trees ring with song. Outside the city, newly tilled soil filled mountain breezes with rich earthy smells, and sometimes the stench of fertilizer wafted through the streets.
    My father and many others gathered at the church at two o’clock to hear the Declaration of Independence read by Reverend Ahn. Mother was on her feet and managing the household as always, but Father denied her desire to join him, deeming it unseemly for her to attend a political gathering, regardless of how many women they knew who would be there. Joong would accompany him and would run home at the proper time to alert the family to unfurl flags in celebration of freedom. How confident we were, and how naive.
    That afternoon in a patch of glaring light in the southern courtyard, Kira and I wrung diapers and spread them on hedges to dry. The water was winter-cold on my hands, but the bright day warmed them as fast as flame. We heard a strange roaring sound and looked at each other as it grew louder. Nearing, the roar clearly became a crowd of people singing and chanting, most likely approaching the paved boulevard a few blocks south. I ran to Mother. “They’re coming