I ache for it still—
that braided song
of my mother and my elder sister,
their wooden mallets lifting, falling,
lifting again.

Slowly at first—
tta, tta, tta—
like measured breath.

Then quicker,
a brightening pulse,
nearly vanishing
as though stepping lightly past a sleeping house,
only to break wide open
like rain loosed from a summer cloud,
each blow flinging sweat into the air.

Before I can follow it,
the rhythm turns the village corner,
pauses—
listens—
and circles back
to its first clear syllable:
tta, tta, tta.

All the while
they trade the lead,
one calling, one answering,
hands speaking where mouths need not.

A steadfast grace
moves through the narrow lanes,
climbs the low roofs,
and spills into the open sky.

In the small ears
of the second-grade boy I was,
it goes on sounding—

soft knocks along seasoned boards,
two heartbeats held in common air,
between raised hand and waiting cotton fabric
a quiet inheritance of care.

Even across the river,
beneath a farther sky,
I imagine them still—
close together,
voices low,
their laughter warm as cloth newly made.

And now, in the hush of my late seventies,
that harmony still lingers in my ears—
and spring, unbidden, gathers in my eyes.

– TaeHun Yoon