Today I got pasta at the dining hall.

As I poured the alfredo sauce over my pasta, a memory from my past suddenly resurfaced into my mind—

a memory I didn't know I still had.

One Saturday afternoon many years ago, I remember crying over the lunch my mom had prepared because I didn't want to eat her alfredo pasta.

I don’t quite remember if it was the alfredo I didn’t want or if I was just releasing my frustration from something else.

I stood in the pasta line for a couple seconds too long as I finished recollecting this old memory.

Didn't cry this time

—

I’ve never had a birthday party before.

Ever since my brother and I were born, it’s been our family tradition to celebrate birthdays with a family dinner.

Just the four of us.

We never ate out because my mom always wanted to cook for us.

And we never bought a cake because my mom always wanted to bake one for us.

And when we were younger, my mom would spend hours learning how to make different balloon creations herself just so she could make our family party feel a little more festive.

And a little more alive.

My birthday (2010)

Many years ago, while we were shopping for new pants for me, I remember asking my mom why she never buys any new clothes for herself.

Most of the clothes in her wardrobe were outfits she had bought years ago and anything new was gifts from others.

She thought about it for some time, but she couldn’t give me an answer.

And maybe she’s never really thought about it.

Mom's youth

I’m sure that whenever she’s shopped for us in the past, countless pretty dresses have caught her eye.

And I’m sure the fancy jewelry and handbags that decorated the other moms at church made her wonder from time to time how they might look on her.

Now that both my brother and I do all of our shopping on our own, I finally see my mom buying new things here and there for herself.

It’s not much. Nor is it that often.

But when she does, I’m thankful.

Thankful for her.

My mom still shops for my dad

My mom’s always tried her best to care for our family before anything else, and I’ve never heard her complain about having to cook us a meal.

So when I think of the sacrifices she’s made for me, the memory of me crying and complaining over my mom’s alfredo pasta paralyzes me with so much shame and regret.

—

While I was traveling in Toronto with some friends recently, we came across a small gift shop.

We looked around, and in the corner of the shop, I found a small music box on display.

Not being able to fight my curiosity, I slowly spun it around and let the tune unwind.

And as the first note of the lullaby filled the room, a memory from my past suddenly resurfaced into my mind—

a memory I didn't know I still had.

When my family lived in Boston over 14 years ago, my dad brought home a small music box from the MIT gift shop one night.

I remember I would spin it around and around in fascination, hoping the beautiful tune would last forever.

The tune didn’t last quite as long as I had hoped, but unknowingly to me, the memory of it had lasted with me until now.

Fur Elise

—

My dad apologized to me recently.

As he was reminiscing about my childhood, he told me he felt so sorry that he could only afford to buy a small Bakugan toy for my 8th birthday.

But my memory of that day is so different.

I remember eagerly picking out what I wanted at Target and not being able to wait to play with it.

Yet it pains me to think about that day from his perspective.

How he must have felt, watching his little boy’s joy over a single toy, knowing that it was just a small fraction of what he wanted to give.

Dad's boys

I’ve never looked back on that day with remorse or sadness of how many more Bakugans my dad could have bought me.

But when I do look back, I think of how much time my dad always tried to spend with me and my brother.

He was always the first to ask us to play tennis, the first to take us to the park, and the first to buy us a delicious meal.

Growing up, there was never a void in my heart that I needed to fill with more Bakugans and toys.

My dad was always there to fill that void.

A toy was just something that kept me occupied while my dad was working, and the real fun started when he came home from work.

Taken on my Nintendo 3DS

—

My mom sent a photo to our family group chat the other day.

She said we wrote these notes for our dad right before he left for a job interview in California 13 years ago.

In our slightly broken Korean, we gave him some encouragement. Along with some money.

Left [My brother's note]: " Money to buy something delicious... to Dad"
Right [My note]: "Dad, use this money to buy coffee. I love you. Fighting!"

I’m sure the money I gave him couldn’t even cover half a cup of coffee.

But for my dad, it seems like there was something in these notes that was more valuable to him.

Out of all the memories that come and go, perhaps this was a memory he didn't want to forget.

A memory he refused to let go.

—

I always tell people that I’m someone who lives in the present.

But when these forgotten memories unexpectedly revisit me, they make me relive the experiences of my past.

And most of these memories are tied with the people I love the most.

And I think that’s why the memories that remind me of my regrets and mistakes hurt the most.

I wish I could’ve been a little more patient and a little more loving.

I wish I could've been better to the friends and family that tried their best for me.

Dad's youth

—

I know it won’t take long before I forget these memories again.

And I know there’s so many more that I can’t think of right now, but are stored somewhere deep inside my past.

But I know these memories will always come back to revisit me.

In one part of my heart, I don’t want to be reminded of my past.

Some of these memories hurt and remind me of who I wish I wasn’t.

Yet in a bigger part of my heart, I welcome these memories.

I yearn for these pieces of my past because they remind me of who I am.

And all of these memories— these fragments of my past— come together to paint a mosaic of my life.

The best I can do now is to keep painting the fragment that defines my present.

I’ll keep painting and painting until one day,

the experiences that surround me now become yet another wistful memory I can look back on.

And even though some of these pieces aren’t beautiful, I hope the final mosaic is something beautiful.

Something I can be proud of,

and something I can come to love.

- James Kim