Hi Kyeonghwa,

How's your cold? Though, I must admit, I'm embarrassed by my late question. I hope you are entering spring in good health.

The bird mobile is peaceful. I hung it on a spot where it’ll catch my eye. When I get bored, I switch up my wall decorations. So, sometimes the scene behind the bird is a seascape or a sleeping person's forehead. It’s currently a sketch of a park. A bustling scene with pigeons atop trees, cats lounging in street corners.

I sat with your response for a long time. I started reading your letter on my phone, then I printed it out and taped it next to the scene the bird mobile was flying through. Rather than writing back, my immediate impulse was to treasure the night and the outside world you sent me. Although, this may just sound like an excuse for my late letter. I wonder if little Ju Ly also had moments like little Kyeonghwa's night. For over a month, I would read your letter again, at times slowly while breathing deeply, at times quickly glancing at the empty spaces between your words. What kind of clarity? I wondered this, Kyeonghwa. What did that night light up for you and how? 

Maybe the light is like the time I’m waiting for. I don't think that time has arrived for me yet. When I think that, I sometimes feel sad, and sometimes my heart flutters with anticipation. So when I have such thoughts, I tend to lie down. I lie still and stare up at the ceiling. I look at the things flickering in the dark before I fall asleep. When I wake up, thankfully my stomach is growling. Any sadness or anticipation has vanished, and soon I'll sling my bookbag on my shoulders and rush out the door to catch the subway.

I saw a partial solar eclipse a few days ago. I’ve heard it's the first time in 7 years that a total eclipse will be visible from New York. I'm not actually interested in such things—so not plugged in to the zeitgeist, I know. If it weren't for my roommate T, I wouldn't have bothered going up to the rooftop that day. T is an incredibly busy PhD student in their final semester. We mostly keep to ourselves in our own separate rooms, like two plants in their own flower pots. When school is in session, we don’t interact much beyond sharing short greetings. But on that day, T texted to ask if I wanted to go see the partial eclipse with them. I deliberated for a bit—I was reading Charles Dickens—and texted back, “Sure.” I heard a fuss in the room next door, then T emerged holding two delivery boxes. In the way some rooms collect light, if you tilt a box slightly, you can see the light that passes through the opening in the box. We would be able to observe the partial eclipse through the gradually darkening light.

We each carried a delivery box on our waists and climbed to the rooftop together. People who had bought solar eclipse glasses stared directly at the sun. With the sun behind us, we peered into the boxes. We each saw a fingernail of light, and we stood still in silence until that fingernail became unbearably short. The scene of the light inside the box has been lingering in my mind, so I'm writing it down here. It’s a scene that would without a doubt shake with the shaking of my hands.

Kyeonghwa—now, that's a name that's good to stretch out. The “hwa” of the last syllable makes it possible to stretch your name out without end. Kyeonghwa. I hope we can think about each other from afar, from time to time, with each of us holding our own cup of tea. Let's keep on writing to each other throughout the year. About that night from your childhood, Kyeonghwa, and the outside world of that night—I want to hear more.

‍

With love,
Ju Ly