I look down at the face of Uhmma. The area around her eyes and lips are wrinkled. Her hair is the color of the gray sky on a cloudy day. Her skin is pale as the snow outside. Memories flashed in my mind of my childhood. Memories flash of when she was alive.

I left Uhmma to go to college after a few years later when Apa was arrested for abuse. He was getting drunk very often then after Halmoni died. I received a degree and ended up being married with three happy, healthy children.

My husband and I had vowed that we would not make the decisions that my parents had made. We had banned alcohol and smoking from the household, and we have promised to teach our children how to live life healthily without ending up like Apa. I never knew where he went. I had never heard back from him since the day he was arrested.

As I approached the beautifully hand-carven wooden coffin with the empty soulless body of Uhmma, I placed a picture that she had given me about ten years ago before I had left for college. It was a picture of my parents and I at the beach. We were happy then. I had not recognized myself at first when I glanced at the picture. But then looking closely, I saw the bright, child-like eyes and the broad smile plastered on the child’s face. That was me, I had thought.

And here I am, standing here in front of the body of Uhmma. I watch as other Korean relatives placed notes written in Korean writing, which I did not recognize. I had not spoken or written in Korean in such a long time, so it seemed very foreign to me.

After the funeral, I clutched my children, and they, my husband and I went to eat somewhere happy, somewhere we can empty all of the sad memories and replace it with the ones that just...happened. Those were the memories that filled us up with the warmth of happiness. My family and I ate at a delicious ice cream place where Anabelle and Dawson seemed to enjoy despite it was only their first visit. Annabelle ordered the usual chocolate ice cream cone and complained that the ice cream was too “watery” as usual. Dawson ordered the vanilla bowl and seemed to be taking more of a bath in the ice cream rather than eating it.

“Anabelle,” I said to my daughter as chocolate ice cream melted down her arm, “You need to eat fast. Here.” I pulled out a napkin and washed the cone off from the melted chocolate, and then I handed the cone back to my daughter as she enjoyed her ice cream cone again.

At this moment, it seemed more of a happy moment with my family rather than a sad moment. It was perhaps sad for my husband and I, but it definitely was not sad for the children who were eating their ice cream away. Besides, my children probably did not have any idea who Uhmma was. In fact, I am for sure that none of them knew who she was, and how important she was to me. But they would soon.

“Mommy,” Anabelle said, “Why were we at the church?”

My husband and I gave each other meaningful looks.

“My Uhmma had gone to heaven with the--”

“Young,” My husband interrupted, noting that I may have gotten watery eyes in describing the event.

“She died,” I sighed.

“Mommy,” Anabelle said again, “Who was Uhmma?”

And for the first time that day, I seemed to smile. “Uhmma,” I explained, “was the greatest mother a person could have. And she was all mine.”

While sitting at a roadside ice cream store, I told my entire family the stories: from my family’s immigration from Korea to the day I left Uhmma for college. That day, it was like I could remember everything that happened in my life in detail than I had ever thought. And of course, my stories had brought my children closer to realizing who Uhmma really was, and how important she really was in my life.