"It's cold outside, but where have you been outside?" There are plenty of young mugworts in the basket of my mother's hand. It is easy to imagine the sight of her wandering over a field to dig mugworts with dim-sighted eyes, in a rattling wind. Her daughter likes mugworts soup. That's why she does so. Thinking her destitution than the thankfulness, I finally say, "It blows hard. Why were you wandering outside? You might fall ill."
Wearing a light smile with her daughter's words, she presses mugworts in cold water under her hand. She says cold water keeps the aroma of mugworts. The grounds that resemble the substance of her life soon rise to the surface, and my mother lets them flow with nothing to regret. After putting thick anchovies into a huge iron pot, she scoops deonjang out of its jar.
Sitting on a floor, I'm getting to feel happy with smells of mugworts soup. Soon, I keep eyeing over her shoulders, making a guess on when to eat the soup. Enjoying the smell of mugworts soup, I eat up a bowl of the soup before other families. I couldn't recognize burning my mouth because of its savory smell. "Will you have some more," she asks. "Yes, please a little more," I replied holding out the bowl. My mother feels happy.
Now, I cannot taste her soup any more. Now matter how many times I have tried to make mugworts soup, I could not copy the taste of hers. When she passed away three years ago, she must have taken away the taste to keep the sight of her daughter who was having the soup deliciously.
I bought some mugworts when I went to a market today. Will my daughter remember the mugworts soup I make for her in the future? One thing is clear. It doesn't seem that I could give my daughter my mother's sight of happiness at that time. Where can I find love as great as my mother's? I wash the mugworts, pressing them under my hand as my mother used to. Tears gather in my eyes and flow away with my yearning.