Memories

Seonmul could remember them so well; the years gone past. He could remember the day that momma had that litter of raccoon dogs and she even let a giant Yana like him peer over the defenseless little pups as they yipped and whined blindly for attention. She smiled at him, she trusted him. Momma and papa had known Seonmul for quite some time before they decided to start a family. He remembered even now when they got engaged, but before the kids and before the married, Seonmul still considered them momma and papa. He wasn’t only ever unsure when that really started churning inside his head. Maybe since the first day he met them? It was easy to remember events but sometimes it was hard to pin down when a friend became an irreplaceable bond like ‘momma’ and ‘papa’ did.

Except for with Shakuhachi. Seonmul knew that since the first time he laid eyes on that little whelp. That he loved him and would after him. He knew he’d do the same for the rest of the litter as well, or at the very least, Seonmul would try.

Times were tough back then, not too unlike things were now. Seonmul was a carefree and happy Yana but some part of him was constantly worried that Shakuhachi would remember those days way back when, and the kind of heartbreak Seonmul, momma, and papa all felt as that big happy family dwindled as the ability to provide escaped the three adults.

As vivid as the day they were born, Seonmul could remember so clearly every last breath each of the raccoon dog children took. Some were right before his eyes, some while his back was turn, and some while he panicked to find something for them all to eat with a worried and weak papa on his back. They’d come home to momma crying like Seonmul had never seen her do before and thought he’d never see her cry again. But she would. The pain didn’t dull. The memory was so clear.

The fact that even two survived to adulthood was a miracle. Seonmul was willing to count his blessing there, especially since it seemed like Shakuhachi and his brother had reached maturity relatively unscathed by the past. Although sometimes Seonmul had to wonder, his brother always felt a little too frightful about romance. Maybe he feared having a family, and feeling the pain that eventually piled up and drowned momma and papa.

Sometimes it felt painful waking up and not having momma and papa there. Seonmul’s heart stung too when he had to realize that Shakuhachi’s brother would never stay put by their side. Seonmul couldn’t protect the both of them unless he learned to be in two places at once. Yet some part of Seonmul was happy that the brother wasn’t always around. Seonmul sucked in his breath and held it tight whenever Shakuhachi turned to his brother and asked.

“Do you remember when we were kids?”

Shakuhachi always ended up smiling and sighing nicely. Seonmul would breath out, relieved. No, Shakuhachi, I think it’s best to just forget.