Facebook X Email Print Save Story Facebook X Email Print Save Story K yungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name. I met Inseon the year I graduated.
I was hired by a magazine where the writers mostly took their own photographs, but for important interviews and travel articles we’d pair up with freelancers we’d booked ourselves. Going on the road meant as many as three nights and four days spent in company, and, on the advice of my colleagues, who said it was best for women to team up with women and men with men, I called several photo production houses until I was introduced to Inseon, who happened to be the same age as me. For the next three years, until I left the magazine, Inseon and I went on monthly assignments together.
We’d been friends for well over two decades by now, and I knew most of her habits. When she started a conversation with my name, I knew she wasn’t simply checking in but had something specific and urgent she wanted to discuss. Hi.
Is everything all right ? I removed my woollen glove to send my reply, then waited. I was pulling the glove back on when another text arrived. Can you come right away ? Inseon didn’t live in Seoul anymore.
She was an only child, born when her mother was nearing forty, and thus encountered her mother’s growing frailty earlier than most. Eight years ago, she had returned to a mountain village in Jeju to care for her mother, who was in the early stages of dementia and whom she lost four years later.
