In the aftermath of the Korean War, my parents were one of the many millions of people left to struggle cold and hunger in the ravaged countryside. While my father was eating bark peeled from trees, my mother slept in abandoned chicken coops with her family during the winters. She said the icicles hanging from the nails in the tin roofs gleamed like stars in the night sky. After having immigrated to New York in the early 80’s, my young parents were able to establish themselves financially.
Now in the eve of their lives, my parents are reverting back into a survival mode of foraging, collecting, and hiding away of resources for an unknowable future. Our suburban house is a cramped collection of picked up second hand furniture, moldy clothing from church bins, and a basement pantry of years expired canned goods. It is as if my parents are preparing for another apocalypse. My house is a mirror of my parents’ innermost thoughts and fears.