I went to visit my mother six months after she passed away. My mother is buried as ashes under a pine tree in the yard of a small temple at the foot of Mt. Yeongchuk in Yangsan, Gyeongsangnam-do. The path to Wolmyeongam Temple on Mt. Yeongchuk was tranquil. It was October, and persimmons were hanging heavily on the persimmon trees, with autumn leaves beautifully coloring the scenery here and there. Walking slowly on the sunny mountain path, I was enjoying the flowers blooming along the road when I suddenly realized that I had not prepared a single flower to bring to my mother, whom I was meeting for the first time after she passed.
If I were to make an excuse, I could say that I was so focused on the thought of meeting my mother that I didn’t think of anything else. But it still felt wrong to visit her empty-handed, so I started picking flowers along the road to make a bouquet. In no time, I had gathered a handful of flowers. The bouquet made of white, yellow, and purple flowers—flowers that I could only name by their colors—was as beautiful as one purchased from a florist.
My mother, who was a formidable woman strong enough to outdo most men, was always an easy person for her children. Perhaps that’s why, even as I laid the impromptu bouquet in front of her, I didn’t feel particularly guilty. Just as she was in life, she would never reprimand me, even in death. She was simply a fool to her children. I dedicate this painting of flowers to my mother, feeling the guilt of not having offered her proper flowers that day.