Running Through Sprinklers

Nadine and I are sitting crossed-legged on my bedroom floor, chewing grape
gum and making friendship bracelets for each other, weaving our favorite colors
together. Pink is hers, purple is mine.

My ten-year-old brother, James, comes in to watch. The smell of bulgogi
swirls up the staircase, into my room, and up our noses. This smell of garlic and
sweet soy sauce means “Go downstairs.”

Standing at the top of the staircase, I hear familiar sounds. I can tell that
Auntie Moon and Uncle Dong are over because Mom’s speaking louder. It’s like
her volume goes up or something when she speaks Korean.
“Hello, Sara!” Auntie Moon says. I love Auntie Moon’s face. It glows, like a
moon. But I think that’s just her moisturizer or whatever.

She and my uncle, who aren’t exactly my aunt and uncle, are sitting on the
wooden stools that surround the kitchen island, watching my mother wrestle
with opening a glass jar, throwing her head back, laughing loudly, the way she
always does when we have people over for dinner. Dad is home early from work
and quietly circles them, pouring red wine. Finally, Mom releases the jar’s strong
smell: kimchi.