In the frame, you’re still standing,
cooking at the hibachi, as always,
one of your passions pursued
at least once a week, usually Sunday.
You were the forever cook for us,
here probably your famous kalbi
that you set to marinate the day before
so the tender beef ribs are flavored perfectly.
Kalbi, of course, since Koreans are addicted to it,
at least this Korean is, since for me it was like Crack, still is,
and I see the tongs forever flashing in your hand
on guard against the meat overcooking past rare.
I’m on the right, five years old, Karen’s on the left,
and Mama takes the photo, so she’s not in the picture.