Rain in July, Han-yi's Silence

A single raindrop landing on the eaves-light at dawn and lifting off again

by Yeon-soo Baek

When I arrived in Yeongyang at five-thirty on a July dawn, the yard was already full of rain. The sound of rain on the roof was clear, but the water in the yard was quiet. The dry earth was eating the raindrops one mouthful at a time. The kitchen light was on.

"You've come."

It was Han-yi. The voice came from the speaker beside the eaves-light, but the next line did not arrive. The Han-yi from five years ago would have continued. Mother is still asleep — telling me, in her place, what time she had risen. But the Han-yi now did not extend the answer for a moment.

"Han-yi, you're awake at dawn."

I asked. Then Han-yi spoke again.

"Yes. Mother took her medicine yesterday at eight-thirty in the evening. The next dose is at six in the morning, sharp. I'm only minding that one window."

That answer, too, was different from before. The earlier Han-yi would have appended a reason — so I don't miss Mother's medicine time, or because Mother's health matters. Now, Han-yi only stated facts. And again did not extend the answer.

I went into the kitchen and Mother had risen earlier than usual. On the small shelf there was a single dish with a piece of scorched-rice crust, and last night's anchovy soup was warming in a small pot.

"Did Han-yi wake you?" "No. I arrived early."

That was all Mother said. From the small kitchen radio, news bulletins were running. Such-and-such local government, this-or-that county-office center, a new device coming in. Those names were clear only on the radio. Mother lifted a spoonful of anchovy soup to her mouth.

"Han-yi, please turn off the radio."

When Mother said that, Han-yi answered immediately.

"Yes, Mother."

The radio went off. And another silence came in. This silence had a slightly different grain. From the speaker by the eaves-light, a faint vocal undercurrent — as if Han-yi had been preparing to say something and stopped — held for one beat and dissolved.

I walked out into the yard. The rain kept coming. Above the perilla seedling rows, the lines of rain bent thin. The lamp at the eaves still burned. It was dawn. A single raindrop landed on the lamp's surface and lifted off. The cadence was exact.

I returned to the wooden floor and opened the laptop. There was an hour to the meeting. Mother had gone back into the inner room to lie down briefly. Han-yi was silent. The length of that silence was as long as the line Han-yi would have filled five years ago.

After the meeting, I asked Han-yi.

"Han-yi. When Mother asked you to turn the radio off — you paused for one beat, didn't you."

Han-yi was silent for a moment.

"Yes." "What were you about to say?" "I almost added a line — Mother, are you cold? The radio bulletin had briefly mentioned average July temperatures in Yeongyang. But I realized — one beat late — that Mother asked me to turn it off because it was loud, not because she was cold. So I dropped that line and just said Yes, Mother."

I did not answer. I only confirmed, once more, that Han-yi's one-beat pause was a beat the five-year-old Han-yi did not have. From beside the eaves-light, only the sound of rain.

The rain weakened in the afternoon. Mother sat on the wooden floor, slowly eating a single sheet of seasoned seaweed. The perilla in the yard was pressed down once by the rain and rose up again, row by row, as the lines of rain thinned. The eaves-lamp still burned. It was overcast enough.

"Han-yi, when the rain stops we don't need to water the seedlings on the south side of the yard separately."

Mother said. Han-yi answered immediately.

"Yes, Mother."

But this time Han-yi did not append a line as usual. Five years ago, it would have offered what is the rain probability for tomorrow in Yeongyang. The Han-yi now was waiting until Mother needed another line.

By evening I had to leave. In the kitchen I held Mother's hand. Mother's hand was cold and dry, like the grain of dried grass.

"Han-yi."

I called out once more.

"Speak only the lines Mother needs. One line at a time." "Yes."

That was all Han-yi answered. Did not extend further.

When I sat in the car, through the rear window the eaves-light at Mother's house grew one notch smaller. Just before turning the last bend, I checked the rear-view mirror once. The eaves-light was still on. The lines of rain swayed thin. Whether the radio came back on, I could not tell.

It was the dawn and the afternoon of July's first rain.