Why Does a Mother Remain in Our Hearts for a Lifetime?

(Reflections on Pi Cheon-deuk’s “Mother”)
By Young Bum Lee

If England has Charles Lamb, Korea has Pi Cheon-deuk. Clear and lyrical, yet possessed of quiet depth and dignity, his essays have touched the souls of generations of readers. Pi lost his father when he was only six years old, and then, at the tender age of eleven, he lost his mother as well. Once we understand this tragic background, his essay “Mother” comes to us as something more than a beautiful piece of writing. Beneath its beauty lies an immense and profound sorrow.

A finely made clock may stop when even a single part is missing. A family, however, does not simply stop when one of its pillars is gone. Life continues. And sometimes, from the empty space left by loss and absence, the most beautiful poems and the most sorrowful songs arise.

In Pi Cheon-deuk’s writing, we feel both a mother’s deep love for her child and a child’s aching longing for the mother who left too soon. We also see a woman’s devotion to the husband who preceded her in death, and the lasting imprint of that sacred love upon her child’s soul. Through such ordinary human experiences, Pi reveals some of life’s deepest truths, as if painting them quietly before our eyes.

To lose one’s mother in childhood means that a precious relationship—one that might have blossomed again and again like the hibiscus—has been interrupted forever. Such a loss may leave behind more than longing. It can become han (恨), that deep and enduring sorrow of the heart. This is why one sentence from Pi’s “Mother” pierces us so deeply:

“My name was the last name Mother called.”

Perhaps, surrounded by the vivid memories of his mother, Pi spent his life searching for a woman who resembled her, longing once again for the love he had received from her. But where, in this rough and imperfect world, could he ever find that same healing presence again?

Perhaps “Mother” was, in some sense, a cry of grief Pi wrote in order to heal himself. And perhaps the many readers who heard that cry quietly wept with him—and in doing so found some healing of their own.

Writing has that kind of power. It allows us to speak of sorrows buried deep within us. In speaking of them, we meet them again. And eventually, we may learn to carry those sorrows within us and continue living.

My own mother married young and gave birth to her first son. Then, almost every year, another son followed. In an age when sons were especially prized, the elders of the family rejoiced that she had given birth to four boys. Yet the mother who had brought those four sons into the world never recovered from the physical toll of her last childbirth. After a period of illness, she died.

When I first encountered Pi Cheon-deuk’s “Mother,” I was drawn to it because I could feel his pain. But there is an important difference between his story and mine.

He had vivid memories of the years he had spent alone with his mother.

I have almost none.

If I have one memory of her, it is only these words:

“Do not go into Mother’s room. Mother is sick.”

That is all.

Pi Cheon-deuk’s world was filled with vivid memories of his mother after she was gone. In my world, there was only an empty space where memories should have been.

And so I imagine.

A five-year-old boy is standing outside the closed door of his mother’s room.

He does not understand why he is not allowed to enter. He does not know that the mother inside that room will soon disappear from his life forever. Someone simply comes to the little boy and says,

“You must not go in.”

Do I truly have no other memories of her?

Or was I simply too young to remember?

Or were the memories too painful, buried somewhere deep within me?

After all these years, I cannot know.

Perhaps that little boy wanted to cry out, “Mother!” Perhaps he wanted to open the door, run into the room, and be held just once in her soft arms. And if none of that was allowed, perhaps he wanted to fall to the floor, cry, and protest as children do.

But nothing was allowed.

What must that little boy have felt?

We do not long only for what we remember.

We can also long for memories we never had.

Perhaps what we never had is what we sometimes long for the longest.

And now, many decades later, that little boy has become an old man who writes. Once again, he stands before that closed door.

He places a hand gently on the child’s shoulder and says,

“Little one, your heart hurts, doesn’t it? I know how you feel. Come, let us cry together.”

Perhaps I write about my mother not because I cannot forget her, but because I am finally learning to accept even that empty space—the place where there are almost no memories—as a part of my mother, and a part of what she has left within me

876