The girl’s eleven year old sister and her sat at the sun-bleached wooden table in 할머니 and 할아버지’s kitchen. She was 6 years old at the time. The age where you’re still as squirmy and impatient as ever. 

Sliding the wooden chair legs along the smooth, wooden floors, she eagerly waited for her snack to be delivered to her from the kitchen.

The girl’s sister placed two cups of cool milk on the table, one for herself and one for her sister. The young girl grabbed the cup with both hands, took a sip, and giggled at the milky mustache left behind from the rim of the cup. 

The two girls talked and laughed together. 할머니 called the youngest over to collect the plates. The eldest carefully folded the napkins and placed them around the table. She found it amusing that she grabbed the salt shaker and gave it to her younger, more gullible sister.

It’s sugar. It will make your milk slightly sweet like rock candy, she said. The girl believed her, just as younger siblings usually do. She grasped the dainty, heirloom shaker and shook a gracious amount into her cup.

All the girl remembered was that it tasted yucky. The “sugar” made the milk sour and salty. She pinched her eyes closed and cried. Her sister had tricked her yet, once again. That’s what she got for being so credulous, so gullible. 

할머니 heard the commotion from the kitchen. Stop fooling around, she said in a rasped tone that was meant to scold the young girl rather than her sister. 

Seeing her cry, she came over and rubbed the young girl’s back, trying to sooth her. Her light whispers went into her ear and drifted to her heart, where it stayed for many years after and still had the same meaning each time the girl thought of that moment.

The girl, only now older, reminisced about the value of that moment from long ago. 

Oh how did times change so quickly? She whispered to herself, looking out the car’s glass window with the faded orange sky quickly retreating, just as moments could, without a shorter notice.