Harabeoji

My paternal grandfather,
My harabeoji, born and raised in
Korea, spoke little English,
And I spoke barely any
Korean, so I never had an
Actual “conversation” with him.
On the rare occasions we
Did “speak,” because my dad translated,
Our back-and-forth was no more
Than brief hellos and polite,
Repetitive cliché exchanges.

I realized too late, as
I realized too late with
All four of my grandparents, that there
Were so many stories they
Could tell if I’d been able
To converse fluently with them
Whenever I had the chance.
So many stories now lost,
A wealth of life experiences
They could have shared with me then.

I’ve heard that Harabeoji,
Among other things, was a poet.
He had pieces published in
Our Korean newspaper,
But even if I found them archived,
I’d have no ability
To understand them, sadly
Lacking, shamefully, I feel these days,
The fluency to translate.
I should have, I know now
Asked my dad to teach me to speak, write,
And read the language – man, how
I wasted resources, I
Should have taken advantage of
When I was young and obtuse.

The one thing I remember
About those rare “conversations” with
My harabeoji was this:
They always ended with him
Telling me the most important thing
To do was go to college.
That, I believe, must have been
What he stressed when he with all his
Many, many grandchildren.

I speak, I believe, for most
Of us, because the majority,
If not all of us, knew
Korean, as well as I.
And some must regret, as well, how we’ve
Lost those stories forever.