Echoes of the White Giraffe by Sook Nyul Choi

Everything that had happened during the last two and a half years had seemed like a distant dream, but with this letter, it all suddenly welled up before me: the shouting poet, Junho, the long climbs up and down the mountain, the Ewha School by the seashore. The lily and the poem made it all real for me; now I knew my memories would stay with me forever. I held the lily and the poem to my heart, and concluded that my life was not a series of sand castles. There was meaning to life, and precious memories even amidst the sadness.
    A bright spot of sunlight leaped from Mother’s clasped hands to Inchun’s dark hair. How kind of them to give me these moments of peace with no questions asked. Mother was now pensively looking out the window with her eyebrows tightly knit and her upper teeth gnawing on her lower Up. I could tell how worried and frightened she was. Inchun stared at me as I studied Mother’s expression. He began to whistle, then stopped and smiled. I knew he had come up with an idea to distract Mother.
    â€œ
Nuna,
what are you going to do with that disgusting, wilted flower? Do you want me to take care of it?” Then he motioned to the window with his chin.
    I gave him an angry stare, placed the flower on Mother’s lap, and pleaded for help. She put her hands over the lily and said with a sudden smile, “Oh, you two are keeping me going. Maybe we
will
find the rest of the family in Seoul.”
    Relieved to see Mother smile and talk, Inchun kept taunting me. “Nuna, can I see that mushy stuff you read for hours? Junho probably copied something from a dead French poet and you think he’s talking about you. Can I see it?” Mother ruffled Inchun’s hair and he grinned.
    The Seoul train station was up ahead and the platform was jammed with people hoping to find their loved ones on the train. Their anxious faces searched every window. As the train came to a stop, we gathered our belongings and battled the crowds. We were pushed off the train and propelled through the streets of Seoul. No one called after us.
    Everything around the station had been bombed, and nothing looked familiar. Bricks, wood, and cement blocks were stacked everywhere. The city looked like one giant construction site. We headed down what we thought was the road to our house. Trucks carrying lumber wove through the streets and honked loudly at us. Many small tents and temporary dwellings had been set up to shelter small children and old folks. Women and children were cooking in front of some of these meager homes, watchful of trucks and passers-by that might disturb their preparations.
    After a long walk, we made it through the busy streets and turned down the familiar little dead-end road that led to our house at the foot of Namsan Mountain. I looked up and saw a part of our gray tiled roof from behind our big cherry tree. What a relief to see our house still standing! We walked as fast as we could, but the street was covered with broken bricks, fallen branches, chunks of concrete, and broken glass.
    Memories of running from the house during the last bombing came rushing back. Mother had kept screaming for me to hurry. The sounds of sirens, airplanes, and exploding bombs had rung in my head, and whenever I looked back, I could see buildings collapsing behind me. I shuddered as I remembered the awful smell of smoke. To rid myself of these memories, I gazed up at the clear blue sky. How thankful I was for the peaceful sky above me.

Chapter Ten
    We finally reached the big stone steps leading up to our house. The thick, cherry-wood doors, scorched and marred by gaping holes, still hung stubbornly from their hinges and retained some of their former elegance. The brass door knockers shaped like dragons were blackened and hung askew, but tenaciously claimed their place. Overwhelmed with relief and excitement, I ran up the stairs, all twelve of them, and stepped over the broken branches and pieces of stone strewn about