TaeHun Yoon

The crows came
into my backyard this morning—

black wings
against a pale and trembling sky,

singing their ancient song:

Caw.
Caw.
Caw.

Their voices were rough,
almost sorrowful,

and somehow
they stirred a fragile place
inside my heart.

For inside our house
SaRang was trembling—

five pounds of fur,
a small body,
a little heart
suddenly too weak
for the morning.

And I watched my wife
lift her into her arms.

Then something became clear.

She had not simply
cared for SaRang.

She had become attached to her.

She had woven SaRang
into the fabric of her days—

into her mornings,
her walks,
her quiet rooms,
her ordinary routines,

until this little dog
had quietly become
part of her own life.

Perhaps we don’t know
how deeply we love
until we fear losing.

Like roots beneath the earth,
love grows silently—

until the storm comes
and reveals
how deep the roots have gone.

Through the night
my wife held SaRang,

whispering prayers
into the darkness.

I watched her
and realized:

SaRang was no longer simply
a dog she loved.

SaRang had become
a member of her heart.

At the veterinarian’s office,
fear sat beside her.

Then she waited all day long
for the blood test.

Then came the message:

Normal.

One ordinary word—

but it opened
the gates of heaven.

My wife wept.

Not only because
SaRang was safe,

but because she suddenly understood
how much of herself
had become bound
to this little life.

She had carried SaRang
in her arms,

but in some mysterious way,

SaRang had been carrying
her heart all along.

When SaRang came home,
she walked—

slowly,

carefully,

but without trembling.

My wife watched
every little step.

She slipped once,

then rose again.

And my wife whispered:

“It is a miracle.”

Then she followed SaRang
from room to room,

a little dog
following her mother,

a mother
following the movement
of her own heart.

“My angel,”
she whispered.

Again.

And again.

Now I understood
that the words were not merely
a name of affection.

They were a confession:

“I didn’t know
how much I loved you
until I almost lost you.”

I returned to the backyard.

The crows were still there.

Caw.
Caw.
Caw.

Their dark voices
no longer sounded frightening.

They sounded like
the rough music of awakening—

the music that reminds us:

Life is fragile.

Love is deeper
than we know.

And sometimes
we discover ourselves
through the fear
of losing another.

Where is Hell?

Perhaps Hell is the trembling
of someone we love
in our arms.

Where is Heaven?

Perhaps Heaven is a little dog
walking safely across the floor,

and a wife
crying tears of relief,

finally conscious
of the enormous love
she had carried
without even knowing its size.

The crows rise
into the morning sky.

Caw.
Caw.
Caw.

And I stand beneath them,

grateful for this strange lesson:

Sometimes fear
reveals love.

Sometimes love
reveals ourselves.

And sometimes
a little dog named SaRang
becomes the mirror
in which a mother
finally sees
the depth of her own heart.

• TaeHun Yoon
  August 17, 2026

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