The first word is moon (달), and if we double its first consonant, it becomes a daughter (딸). We liked that transition, so, we looked for another word that would be amenable to a similar fate. And that is how we found a rice plant (벼) that becomes a bone (뼈).
Once upon a time there was a moon that wanted to have a daughter at all costs. So, she sent her flocks of birds to a rice field to bring her all the grains of rice they could find. The moon put the grains together, one by one, creating bones as dark as those birds. One bone after another, until she ran out of rice. And then the moon ordered her birds to hold those bones in the air, forming a skeleton. And when night fell, and the light touched those bones for the first time, a little girl was born. A bone moon. The perfect sacrifice for the birds.
The moon left. Leaving her daughter behind. She left, with her gaze fixed on the ground, never to lift it again. Because if she did, she would have to see those birds. Waiting for the light to be done fattening her daughter. Waiting for the night they could finally feast on her. Darkening her, until her bones showed, and a new endless cycle began.
Bird: Wait. Patience, my brother. She is not ready yet. Good things come to those who wait.
Bird: Feed. Feed. Feed. Singing can wait until the lights go out. Feed, my brother. Feed. Feed. Feed.
Bird: Don’t listen to your wings, my brother. You won’t burst at the seams. And even if you did, this is space. Wings are of no consequence. Keep feeding, my brother. Fill your bones.
Bird: Are you full, my brother? What do you say we listen to a sad song to help us wash the last grains of rice down? Don’t mind her. Sooner or later the craziness had to show in her smile. This is the moon, after all. Just enjoy the song. The light will be back soon enough.
I built something out of rice once. I didn’t shed a single tear while I was building that daughter of mine. I will never regret building her. But enough time has passed that now I can’t help wishing I had cried. Because I can’t bear to look up at all that empty darkness knowing that I left her there. All alone. Without a single guilty tear to at least soothe some of the pain.
Fancy meeting you here! How have you been, my little birds? Did you miss me? Unlike your brother here, you look well fed. You were always my favorite, and I couldn’t be prouder of you. Keep using your wings to shrug off words like loyalty and gratitude, my fat little bird. I wouldn’t expect you to starve just because I left. Your hunger knows that people are replaceable. Your wings know that only the empty sky matters. And I know that, one day soon, you will leave, just like I did.
I wonder if someone tried to follow in my footsteps. I wonder if these bones were meant to be someone’s daughter. When will people learn that only birds can really fly? Haven’t they grown tired yet of filling the world with poor excuses?
I have never understood those who choose to call someone else their home. Maybe it’s because I grew up on a rock, surrounded by silence on all sides, but I need room to breathe. The only thing I have in common with those birds that used to be mine are my wings. What? You don’t see them? What do you call the smile on my face then? How do you measure happiness if not in wingspans? I can’t imagine myself living in someone else’s heart. Wings might have been designed to fold, but smiles are easily stunted, and I decided a long time ago that I would never take that risk.