A month—

no longer than the turning

of one page

in the book of heaven—

yet long enough

for my soul

to remember

its first language.

Tomorrow

the wide-winged airplane

will lift me once more

over the Pacific,

back

to the green hills

of Tennessee,

where another home

waits quietly,

its doors already open,

its trees

remembering my name.

Between these two homes

I have lived

forty-six years.

Long enough

for one country

to become memory,

and another

to become daily bread.

Long enough

to discover

that belonging

is never divided—

only multiplied.

When I first departed,

I thought

I was leaving Korea.

Now I know

I have carried her

like hidden seed

inside every season,

inside every prayer,

inside every poem

I have ever written.

This time

I did not hurry.

I let the nation

walk beside me.

The swift KTX,

its silver body

piercing mountains

like an arrow of light.

The subways,

flowing beneath Seoul, DaeGu, Busan

like unseen rivers.

Village buses

climbing quiet roads

where grandmothers

still wave

toward passing strangers.

Every journey

became a conversation

between my footsteps

and the land

that first received them.

How kind

this country

has become

to old knees.

Escalators

lifting tired pilgrims.

Elevators

honoring

the unhurried dignity

of age.

Comfort,

once unimaginable,

now offered

without words.

Yet every blessing

carries

its own shadow.

Children

walking together,

each alone

inside the blue glow

of a small screen

to gather in an imaginable small village.

Faces

bright with light,

hungry

for one another.

Crowded streets,

quiet hearts.

At Busan Station

voices called

for passengers,

not unlike fishermen

casting nets

into uncertain water.

Even prosperity

must labor.

Even abundance

knows

the weight

of tomorrow.

I returned

to Sinchon.

To Nogosan

where I was born.

To streets

that no longer

recognized my footsteps.

Nothing

had disappeared.

Everything

had changed.

Perhaps

that is

how memory

protects love—

by allowing places

to become

more beautiful

than time

can preserve.

At Taejongdae

the cliffs

stood unmoved

before restless waves.

At Seoraksan

the pines

still prayed

their wordless psalms.

The sea at Sokcho

spoke

the same ancient language

it spoke

before my birth.

Creation

does not forget

the names

God first whispered.

Everywhere

I met

the nations.

Languages

crossing streets

like migrating birds.

New citizens

calling Korea

their own.

And I,

born beneath

this very sky,

returned

holding

only a resident card,

smiling

at the gentle humor

of history.

Home,

too,

can become

a country

one visits

with gratitude.

Politicians

still argue.

Boundaries

still remember

old wounds.

History

still limps.

But beneath

the noise,

God continues

the patient work

of resurrection.

Ashes

become harvest.

War

becomes hymn.

Broken people

become

living stones.

Tomorrow

I will close

my suitcase.

A few books.

A few gifts.

Summer clothes

holding

the fragrance

of Korean rain.

Kimchi.

Rice.

Soup.

The taste

of my mother’s kitchen—

still warm

inside memory,

still nourishing

a son

who never truly left.

Nothing

is heavy,

except gratitude.

Again

I become

a traveler.

One home

behind me.

One home

before me.

The road itself

becoming

my address.

The sky

my oldest companion.

The grace of God

my passport.

Farewell,

beloved homeland.

Do not keep me

only among those

who departed.

Remember me

among those

who returned

again

and again,

because love

always learns

the road home.

When another season

ripens

upon these mountains,

and another wind

crosses

the Pacific,

we shall meet

without explanation.

For every farewell

is only

love

taking

the longer road

back home.

— TaeHun Yoon, 6/29/2026,

On the eve of my departure, I spent a quiet hour at Dok DaBang —Eagle—the coffee house where my friends and I gathered after church throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s. Sitting in Sinchon with my lifelong friend WanHee, beside Yonsei University and just across from Changchun Methodist Church where we were married, I let the soft drift of classical music fill the room. In this very afternoon, the Presidential National Briefing came over the speakers, announcing Korea’s plan to advance its Three Major Mega-Projects: Semiconductors, Physical AI & Robotics, and AI Data Centers. It was a gentle reminder that even as I prepared to leave once more, my homeland was already imagining the shape of its future.