My grandmother wrapped my thumb with a piece of thread, the tip of my finger growing redder with each turn of the fiber. She then pricked the purple space between my fingernail and my knuckle. A crimson bead bloomed, the release meant to relieve my indigestion. In it I saw the reflection of my grandmother's face, so much like mine. I had lost much of the language that had once filled my ears with her voice, but in that growing drop of blood remained our pulsing familial tie, as taut and delicate as the string that still held us together.
Sua Im is a teacher on a break. She was born in South Korea and now lives in Massachusetts, USA, by way of Germany. Instagram: @suaimwrites