Knocking on Halmoni’s Door
I have vivid memories of visiting my grandmother’s house as a child. I know the way so well—the exact subway car to get off at so we’re closest to the exit stairs, the swirl ice cream machine we always pass where I beg my mom for a cone (“just this one time!”), the correct right turn to make (it’s the second one, not the first or the last). In my memories, we arrive at her gate, the one with giant lion-faced metal door knockers with rings in their mouths. I reach out quietly to grab one, knowing as soon as it creaks her dogs will start barking like mad.
I know tons of people have similar childhood memories of visiting their grandparents, whether it was a long, cross-country drive or a quick bike ride up the street. But my grandmother, who I saw every summer, lived on the other side of the world.
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