卡伦Stelson

我壁橱里的衣服我不能放手：

When I was fifteen years old, my family hosted two young, beautiful Korean women, whose university choir was on tour and visiting the U.S. I can’t remember how they arrived in our home for a two-night stay, but I do remember one scene: One of the young women and I were talking in my bedroom. She laid out two汉伯克斯，传统的韩国连衣裙，在我的床上，问我最喜欢哪一个。每件衣服都是传统的图案，全长到地板上，用高白色带穿孔，肩部薄肩带，覆盖着搭配的短夹克长，袖口。一件衣服是蓝色缎面，另一件粉红色与金色和银色螺纹穿过和周围的花朵。我指着粉红色，金银之一，并说它很漂亮。“尝试一下，”这位年轻女子说。“它适合你。”我看着礼服然后在那个关于我身高和大小的年轻女子。“拜托，”这位年轻女子向我抬起了衣服。“我的祖母会很开心。她制作了这件衣服。“ Who could resist dress up? I dropped my clothes and pulled the hanbok over my head. The young woman helped fasten me up. All smiles, I carefully walked downstairs for a fashion show for my parents. I twirled around and took a bow. When I returned to my bedroom, I thanked the young woman and began to take off the dress. “It is yours,” the young woman said. “It is my thank you to your family. My grandmother will be so happy to know her dress is our gift.” I was speechless. By the expression on the young woman’s face, I realized my innocent dress-up game had meant something quite different to my Korean guest. The dress was mine. That was final. Some fifty years later, the pink hanbok with gold and silver threads still hangs in my closet. The grandmother who made the dress has surely passed on to the next world. Her granddaughter who gave me the dress may be a grandmother herself. But the pink hanbok with gold and silver threads remains unworn, unaltered, unchanged, cloaked in the memory of that scene in my bedroom and the sound of the only Korean word I remember,gamsahabnida-谢谢你。