Ko-ma-to-rae Stationery Store

There was a local stationery store across the street from the school I attended in Korea. Despite its name “Ko-ma-to-rae stationery”, the store offered more than just stationery items; it provided snacks, books, slippers, trending board games, and keychains– setting it apart from typical convenience stores. The store was owned by a lady in her late 50s who always wore a navy blue, flower-patterned apron with pockets on the front, whether organizing the snack shelves or cooking tteokbokki and french fries while constantly chatting with a lady who seemed like her bosom friend. Her friend was always wrapped up in a soft, sky-blue blanket with a cloud pattern. Like many other Korean ‘ajummas’, she had her hair cut short and permed to achieve that voluminous mushroom-like look. Since the store was privately owned by the lady, the prices were much more affordable than other chain stores, and the products and food were unique and seemed to be tailored to the tastes of elementary students. It was close to school, so my friends and I bought almost everything we needed for school there. Three long hours after lunch, hungry 12-year-olds would rush to the store as soon as the school bell rang, the image of steamy hot tteokbokki flashing in their minds. Since most of us had to go to cram schools after, everyone ran to be the first in line. My lesson usually started at 4:30 and lasted until 5:20, after which I would then take the bus home around 5:30.

My spare time between school and cram school was often spent at this stationery store. I would usually enjoy a cup of tteokbokki (simmered rice cake, a popular snack in Korea), talk to friends, or browse for new cute items that had recently been added to the shelves. The lady never minded how long I stayed as long as I didn’t disrupt other customers. Having that cozy, home-like atmosphere, the store had always made me feel comfortable and welcomed. However, whenever the store would bustle with teachers and students, the lady would ask me and my friends to leave.

The lady had a great sense of humor and was particularly good at making borderline-sarcastic jokes. For example, whenever I asked her how much something cost, she would always quote a price a hundred times higher than the actual price, just to see my surprised reaction. The fact that I fell for it every time probably encouraged her to keep on putting on the act. Our typical conversation went like this:

“Ajumma, how much is this?”

“$500…”

“Wait what?!”

Then, her friend, always sitting on a stool behind the checkout counter wrapped in the soft fleece blanket, would chime in, “She’s messing with you again! It’s only 5 dollars,” and then including the guests next to us we would all burst into laughter. Looking back, it was such a corny joke, but my twelve-year-old self back then thought it was the funniest thing ever, and I even mimicked her jokes sometimes. The ladies seemed to have the strongest bond. I often eavesdropped on their conversations about their everyday lives– worrying about their sons in college, who didn’t bother to study and were always out, complaining about the noisy barking chihuahua next door, or ‘discussing’ about a nosy lady whom they both disliked. While they shared all the mundane aspects of their extremely ordinary lives, I sat there and listened, sometimes with a friend, looking for an opportunity to make comments out of it too. I was twelve at the time, but I still remember the conversations so clearly, perhaps because I was so engaged.

Whenever I faced a certain problem, I also shared it with ajummas. They would then brutally point out the facts whether it was my fault or not. Their advice was always straightforward, never sugar-coated, and ultimately served as guidance for me. For example, once after a fight with a friend, they told me the importance of keeping healthy boundaries even between your closest friends. Another time, when I was almost running out of my allowance, the lady advised me to develop financial maturity, even though her job was to sell the items in her store. At times like that, she would sometimes remind me of my grandmother, who also had a considerate personality with ruthlessly truthful advice, which most people can find too much for a child to handle.

One day, it was pouring heavily outside. After my class ended, I realized I had left the folder I needed that night in my locker. Thinking I could still catch the bus on time, I hurried back to get it. When I returned, it was nearly pitch dark outside; the sky was heavily clouded, and the rainy winds sent shivers down my spine. The school looked completely different from the place I had been just a few hours ago, almost as if it was haunted. Leaves covered the benches, the lights were off, and not a single familiar vibe lingered. The bus had already left, and only a few upperclassmen remained in the building. I had no choice but to wait for my mom to pick me up after work, while the traffic had me wait for about another hour without an umbrella. I was lost in thought, my clothes completely soaked, and I regretted the decision I had made a few minutes ago. The time was ticking, the sky grew darker, and the clock hands were racing toward the 6-clock mark.

Then, I heard a familiar voice from afar—it was the lady from the stationery store. The store closed at 6, so she was preparing to leave. However, once she spotted me she beckoned me to stay in the store until my mom was here. She told me I could have some leftover french fries along with a piece of candy. She even handed me the fleece blanket that had been on the stool her friend had used earlier. Wrapped snugly in the comforting embrace of the blanket, it felt as if we had truly become friends—The warmth of the blanket felt like an affirmation of our friendship. The next morning, on my way to school, I stopped by the store with a bottle of orange juice with a thank you note attached, as my mom had reminded me to give it to her.

As time passed and I moved away for middle school in the U.S., my afterschool sessions at the store naturally came to an end. When I returned a few years later, Ko-ma-to-rae was gone. In its place stood a newly remodeled convenience store with new windows, shiny vending machines, and an outdoor sitting area. Not only had the store changed, but everything around it had transformed significantly. The familiar feeling of homeyness within the corner of the heart was now nowhere to be spotted. The buildings were now covered with brighter paints, new tiles covered the sidewalks, and even the trees appeared straighter—everything seemed so different. It felt strange to be standing in the same location that felt so different from a few years ago. On one hand, it was fascinating to witness the power of industrialization and intrigued by how things can change in such a short time. On the other hand, I wished it could slow down a little. I stood tall in front of the newly constructed convenience store, just gazing at the logo. Then I closed my eyes, and tried to recall how it looked before—how it looked with the sign “꼬마또래”. I realized that, although I could physically be present there, I could no longer truly “be” there anymore. The ladies, the warm scent of food, the bustling kids lining up, and the welcoming atmosphere had all faded into memories, only ingrained in my mind—only visible with my eyes closed. I tried—really tried to hold onto those reminisces.

Last summer, during a visit to Korea, I encountered the lady in a grocery store near my grandparent’s house. We recognized each other instantly, and warm smiles crossed both our faces. I couldn’t help but notice how time had passed; I had grown taller than her—I used to look up to her, but now I found myself gazing downward. It was that familiar rush of emotions, similar to what I felt when seeing my grandparents after years apart. I had grown up, and they had aged. The subtle yet unignorable wrinkles and blemishes on the back of their hands and their thin wrists seemed like a testament to the continuous flow of time. I showed her the grocery bag I was holding, filled with sodas, chips, and some microwavable tteokbokki. I told her how much I missed her tteokbokki and that the one in the bag could never match the taste of hers. We briefly caught up on our lives over the years, reminiscing about the store and that one rainy day. Despite the changes life had brought, I still felt the strength of our friendship. I still remember—at that moment, seeing her felt as if I had returned to being a 12-year-old girl, eager to spend her allowance in a local stationery store, holding on to a cup of tteokbokki.

Instructor: Aurora Shimshak

James T. Lewis Prize Winner 2024