Tracks in the Borrowed Country

I found them today—tracks pressed into earth like questions I've been asking my whole life. Four pads, claws extended, searching. The matted grass holds the shape of something that passed through, something wild that knew where it was going. I kneel beside these impressions, my fingers tracing the edges where fur still clings to mud.

Long strands decay fly away, transcending to whispers of the afterlife.

These tracks could be mine. Could be eomma's. Could be the path between Seoul and this borrowed country where I learned to speak in a tongue that never quite fit my mouth. The animal that made these—did it look back? Did it wonder about the cubs it left behind?

My utterances reflect not knowing my kin's name.

I follow the trail until it disappears into forest, into the unknowing. Somewhere, footprints lead home. Somewhere, a mother's scent still lingers on wind I'll never breathe.

Will they recognize my face? Who will claim me.