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I feel my grandmother's fingers combing through my hair, just as they did when I was a child and she was getting me ready for school. I didn't think it would be possible to feel this again, given the ongoing global pandemic, which included the birth of my baby in September 2020. And yet, after a 15-hour flight to Korea with a rambunctious 17-month-old, followed by 10 days of quarantine and 4 PCR tests, my grandmother and I are reunited.
Surprisingly, it feels like no time has passed. We sing Korean children's folk songs together (though this time to my baby, Alden), she insists I eat more food, and she does my hair.
When I was a child, my If DIM {halmeoni, "grandma") would transform my bedhead into an art piece almost daily, sometimes even using scissors to cut bits and pieces to meet her meticulous standards. I was in awe of her commitment and would happily sit at her feet for an hour or longer as her fingers rhythmically massaged my scalp. I was proud of the care and time she invested in me; I felt deeply loved.
Now, at 94, she's not able to braid with the same intricate detail she once did so effortlessly. She attempts a double French braid but pivots midway to a single braid. "Do you want me to do a French braid?" she asks me for the fourth time in a row, a sign of her dementia. "Yes, please!" I say as enthusiastically as I can, as if it's the first time, though likely it will not be the last.
As our limited time together passes, chunks of my hair fall out of the loose braid. I pin it up. More falls out. I add another hair tie. I tuck it behind my ears. By the time we need to say goodbye, more hair is out of the braid than in. But even as I lie in bed that night to go to sleep, I can't bear to take out the elastic that she originally put in place. I let the braid hang, draped over my pillow, my grandmother's love.
Alden will likely never have memories of her great-grandmother caressing her hair, but she will know her love...