When Rain Touches Asphalt
The scent of rain on asphalt hit me as I stepped off the plane.
It’s one of those smells people either love or hate, and I’ve always loved it. It’s olfactory nostalgia: jumping in puddles after school, warming up by a fire, and watching raindrops race down a window.
In California, rainy days felt special, like the world was trying to tell you something. Now, at twenty-five, it reminded me of being drunk—everything felt more sublime, like you were on the verge of discovering something important, but never quite there.
It felt fitting—I’d flown home for Thanksgiving, my first trip back from New York in a long while.
Lost in thought, I realized I was still on the runway. I quickened my pace towards baggage claim.
Inside the airport, I spotted Mom sitting and reading on her phone. I was about twenty feet away when I called out to her.
“Mom!”
She turned towards my general direction and squinted hard. She really ought to wear her glasses. Ten feet away, she made me out and her mouth opened to a wide smile.
“Welcome home my son!”
We hugged tenderly and then headed for the car. Before she started driving, she opened an overhead compartment and put on her thin, silver-framed lenses. She looked at me, silently asking whether I liked them.
She looked bookish and nerdy, adorable in the way older people are. I chuckled.
“You look like a librarian! They’re cute.”
We laughed, and she put the car into drive. It had been a long time since she last drove me around.
I was now an independent adult, and that came with a few perks. One of the best was that it'd become much easier to be honest with Mom. But growing up, I had to be extremely clever to get what I wanted.
When I was eighteen, I was invited to a party I couldn’t miss. Kristen, my prom date, would be there. My family lived far away from school, so if I wanted to go out, I usually had to sleep over at a friend’s house. But this time, all my guy friends were out of town.
Mom had two rules for sleepovers: no girls, and she had to know the parents. So, I devised a plot and enlisted Kristen, the Bonnie to my Clyde. She would pretend to be the mother of “Taylor”, one of my male “physics classmates”. “Taylor” and I were going to “hang out” over the weekend. I even wrote a script for Kristen to follow.
I was with Mom when she took the call from Kristen. She went inside her bedroom, and I put my ear to the door. I heard Kristen’s voice on speaker.
“Hello, Sue! This is Taylor’s Mom. So lovely to meet you over the phone. Taylor and Jordan will be working on their physics project. I’ll make sure they don’t stay up too late!” she said in an eerily convincing “Mom voice”.
It was an Academy Award-winning performance, and by the end of the call, our ruse had succeeded. Mom said it was okay for me to go. I thanked her nonchalantly and went back into my room.
Alone, I smirked with guilty pleasure. This was my biggest stunt yet. God, Kristen was perfect. Was this love?
That Friday, I had one cheeky night.
Fondly reminiscing, I found myself giggling in the car.
“Hey Mom, do you remember when I had my prom date lie to you, so that I could go to that party?”
“Oh yes, that was a very big lie,” she replied. She looked at me with a face that said, “you little rascal”.
“Did you ever know that I was lying?”
“I had a feeling, yes. You had never talked about Taylor before, so I thought it was suspicious. But I trusted you. You see, your two older brothers wouldn’t have lied to me like that. But then again, you opened my eyes to how devious boys can really be. I was shrewder when your little brother Ethan became a teenager. Though, he was not happy about that—I could see through his shenanigans!” she said triumphantly.
It was true. Ethan complained that I made Mom too smart. Winking in response, I would tell him, “Just be honest then, or more clever”.
Though, my days of tricks were behind me. And as Mom and I drove down a windy road, we laughed about the past. It felt good to laugh like this with Mom. These days, laughter came less easily. And when it did come, there was always something lurking beneath it.
We were at a red light, and after a few moments of silence, I asked Mom how she was doing.
“I’m getting by day by day, but I’m tired,” she said solemnly. “I still have to work on my tax returns and figure out a lot of stuff with my lawyer. But I am finally a Park again and have my own identity,” she ended with a half-smile.
After a three-year legal battle, my parents' divorce had finally settled. Shortly after, Mom reverted to her maiden name, Park—a victory, in its own way. But in the end, none of us felt like winners (besides the lawyers, I suppose).
Mom said she survived because she had Jesus. Not a believer myself, I still had to thank Him. He was, allegedly, with her all the time. I saw her 3 times a year now.
“I’m proud of you Mom, and love you. We have a new chapter ahead of us, and it’ll be the best yet, the most fun,” I said energetically, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Thank you, Jordan. I don’t think I’m there yet, but one day, I know I will be. Thirty-six years takes a lot of time to get over.”
I rubbed her shoulder. While there were moments when Mom was joyful, I had not seen her happy in a long time.
We stopped at another red light, and I looked at her. Against the smooth black steering wheel, her hands looked dry and worn. Her hair was streaked silver and wrinkles creased her forehead.
In my mind, Mom still had smooth skin and dark hair—still the woman I once trailed behind in Costco, the one I told teenage lies to. But time had passed. As I stepped into my prime years, she was quietly leaving hers.
She was still beautiful. But she was right: she was tired. The divorce had taken its toll.
She was fifty-seven, and for the first time, she looked it.
Homecomings feel like retreats. For starters, life slows to a crawl—in a good way. Compared to New York, California felt blissfully uneventful. Life at home revolved around two things: eating and talking with my family—exactly as it should on holiday.
Being home is also humbling. No matter how many titles you earn or how grown-up you feel, you’re always Mom’s baby.
In practice, this meant Mom treated me like I was four years old. And let me be clear, she did this happily. Taking care of people makes her truly happy.
Throughout the week, I’d wake up to hot coffee waiting on the nightstand. I’d shuffle into the kitchen, where a breakfast fit for a king was laid out. And by the afternoon, my clothes would be washed, folded, and stacked like I was a guest at a five-star hotel.
I tried telling Mom this wasn’t necessary, but she carried on anyway. So be it—these were just the sacrifices I would have to make.
Despite getting pampered, I tried being useful around the house. My biggest concern was the staircase.
At night, the steps were barely discernible, and recently our dog Madison had toppled down them. She was okay—she had strong pitbull bones. But what if it was Mom who fell?
Especially with the fresh memory of Mom squinting at the airport, I could almost picture the tragedy: the midnight scream, the frantic drive to the hospital, the pacing back and forth outside the emergency room…
Fortunately, with a single swipe on Amazon, I ordered automatic night lights which arrived the next day. When I installed them, I felt a surge of pride. It was a small yet thoughtful deed, the type of gift that may go unnoticed.
But being the third son of four, I had learned from a young age that it’s the squeaky wheel that gets grease.
So, unable to restrain myself, I conspicuously showed the lights to Mom. She clapped in appreciation and gave me a hug. My three brothers rolled their eyes, and when Mom wasn’t looking, I smirked mischievously at them.
Since I was such a “good son”, I was “asked” by my brothers to make lunch for the family. While slicing tomatoes, I noticed the kitchen knife was dull. I grabbed another from the chopping block—same problem. Nearly every knife had lost its edge.
Mom handed me the whetstone, and as I ground away, the rhythm let my mind drift.
Nightlights, dull knives, and other house chores—these were but small things in themselves. But together, they felt like quiet reminders of what I dreaded thinking about.
Mom was aging alone.
Yes, I would always be Mom’s baby, but she needed help, even if she never asked for it. And though she had my brothers and me, we all knew it wasn’t the same as having a husband. She would say that it was okay, that she had Jesus, and that this world was only temporary.
But to hell with that! I don’t want her to only “get by” in this world. I can’t wait for heaven. She deserves happiness now, on the earth where we both live.
As I ran the final blade through the whetstone, sadness crept in.
Was it fair that Mom was alone?
Was it fair that I should feel burdened?
Was it even a burden? Was I just selfish?
I wanted to be angry instead, to rage and blame everything: the world, the God I didn’t believe in, and the dad who wasn’t there.
But like Mom, wrath was not the way I coped.
After dinner that night, Mom and I sat by the fireplace, drinking tea. My brothers were winding down in their bedrooms, either on their phones or playing video games. I wanted to talk to her about our trip together. To celebrate the divorce closing, I had promised a vacation for just the two of us.
“Mom, have you decided where you’d like to go?”
“No, not yet. I was thinking maybe we could hike the El Camino in Spain. I know you also floated the idea of Italy or France too. That would be nice. But regardless, I need to get my passport first.”
“I’m happy to go anywhere. I just want the place to be special for you.”
“I know…it’s just been so busy. I haven’t had the time to get my passport or think about it much.” She paused again and then said with a smile, “It’s funny, I gave you my suitcases long ago and now you’ve used them way more than me. You know, I love traveling too! That’s where you got the traveling spirit.”
Indeed, I had taken her luggage around the world. She hadn’t left the country since high school, forty years ago.
I laughed the comment off and put my arm around her shoulder. But really, her remark made me sad. There were many things Mom used to love—before kids, before Dad, before the divorce. But she'd given them up. She was always giving, but very rarely taking. This trip, I hoped, was finally something that she'd take.
We sat on the ground with our backs resting on the front of the sofa. I put my head on top of hers and watched the room glow orange from the fireplace.
“Jordan, can I ask you something?”
“Sure Mom, of course.”
“How have you taken the divorce so well? It’s like you don’t get sad about it.”
It was something she hadn’t asked me before. I had to think it over.
“I don’t know. Sometimes, I think about all the problems in the world, and then I think that even though this sucks, there are far worse problems to have.”
“But how do you not get sad about it all?”
“I do,” I said defensively. “But I just think sadness doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve our problems.”
I could feel my body getting warm. I desperately searched for the right words.
“The way I see it, nothing was going to give me closure, so I gave it to myself,” I declared firmly.
“But how do you do that? Why is it so hard and painful?”
She was barely able to finish those last words as she started to sob on my shoulder.
There was nothing to say. I probably said the wrong things anyway. I pulled her closer.
It was at this point that Ethan came into the living room looking for more potato chips. He saw Mom’s face buried in my shoulder. We made eye contact, and he grimaced awkwardly. I shot him a wide-eyed look that clearly said, now was NOT the time to ask Mom where the Pringles are.
He nodded and left the room.
My smile quickly faded. Seeing Mom like this brought me back to the early and worst days of the divorce, when my brothers and I visited her every Sunday in Pasadena. I was living in Santa Monica then, and the drive through dense Los Angeles traffic took over an hour. I almost never minded the traffic though. Most days, I secretly wished it would stretch on forever.
Those were hard nights. It was hard to hear her cry for hours while I stood there feeling helpless. Hard to watch her pour another too-full glass of wine. Hard to be happy when there was nothing good to say.
On those late-night drives back to my apartment, I would take the 110 through downtown Los Angeles. I don’t know why, but I was always fond of seeing the Wilshire Grand Center building. At the top, it had a giant LED screen, always glowing with the Korean Air logo—red and blue, almost like a Pepsi sign. Something about it, unwavering against the dark skyline, steadied me.
Even through tears, I felt like everything was going to be okay whenever I drove past it.
Mom had stopped crying, and I could feel her breathing ease back to normal. The room was soon quiet and still.
“Hey Mom, we should go to Korea,” I said softly.
She sniffled and wiped her eyes with a tissue. She whispered back, “Yes, that would be so fun, wouldn’t it?”
The next day, I needed some alone time and fresh air. In the backyard, I read A Farewell to Arms, Hemingway’s novel about an American ambulance driver in World War I. I’d always liked reading war novels. Even though they were tragic, I usually came away from them feeling grateful. Watching comrades die, losing a leg, or pulling a trigger—those were real problems. What right did I have to feel sorry for myself?
I was near the end of the book when a line stopped me cold:
“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places...”
The line sounded familiar, like something I’d heard recently, but couldn’t quite place.
I turned back to reread the line—but suddenly, I was interrupted. Mom and my brother Logan were ominously approaching me. Logan had an impish grin and was carrying a steel bucket. No, please let me finish this book.
“Hey Jordan! Do you want to help us weed?” Mom asked brightly.
I was slightly annoyed because I had only a couple pages left. But I could hear the enthusiasm from her voice; protesting would be no use. I’d learned from my girlfriend that with questions like these, the only acceptable answers are “yes” and “sure”—whether you’re offered dessert or yardwork.
“Yes, Mom. I would be happy to help.”
Like many maturing women, Mom had recently developed a passion for gardening. She especially hated weeds. Almost every day, she’d be outside uprooting the invasive plants. And since Logan lived at home, he was almost always her garden hand. He set the metal bucket next to my feet. I could tell he was thrilled to share the pain.
I put the book away and the three of us got to work, squatting low to the ground. Having rained most of the week, the earth was damp, and soon my hands were muddy and cold.
“It’s good that it rained recently. It makes it easier to root these out,” Mom said matter-of-factly as she tossed a long one into the bucket. “You have to pull them from the root, right where the stem meets the ground. Yeah, just like that. Good job, Jordan.”
I felt four years old again.
“There are so many weeds here. When was the last time you did this?” I asked.
“Only a couple days ago. Weeds grow fast, especially after rain. Isn’t that right Logan?”
“Mm-hmm,” he grumbled.
“Logan doesn’t like to weed. Says it’s boring work. But you don’t seem to mind, do you Jordan?”
I shot Logan a glance. It was probably his idea to get me weeding anyway, so this was payback.
“Nope, don’t mind at all. I like being outdoors. It’s fun—like we’re hunter-gatherers foraging for food.”
“Logan, why can’t you be like your brother? He seems so happy to help,” she scolded.
Logan scoffed as he ripped out two weeds at once. “Well, Jordan is just a better son, I guess. He even told me that he’d do the side yard after we finish up here.”
“Really?” Mom asked with genuine surprise. She had always been pretty gullible.
I was too deep into my “I’m a good son” shtick. Logan had cornered me.
“Yep, I think I like this work a lot!” I said with an outward smile. Dammit.
Mom looked delighted. “That’s good to hear. You know, it’s very important to weed. You won’t have a good garden if you don’t do it often. It’s hard, boring work—but it’s necessary.
“Hey, you know what? Life is like weeding. There are always weeds in life, and you have to pluck them out early. If not, they overrun the garden. And you have to pull them from the root, or else they grow back too fast.
“Mmm, yes… Life is like weeding... Jordan, that would be a good story to write about, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would be. It really would.”
For the next ten minutes, we each focused on a separate plot of the yard. The bucket quickly filled, and Logan emptied it into a waste bin.
“Man, I’m hungry. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything all day,” he said casually as he dropped the bucket, clanking against the concrete. He strolled back inside with Mom right behind him.
Before she stepped into the house, she turned to me.
“I can make us all lunch. You’re gonna continue weeding?”
“Yep. I’ll just finish up on the side yard.”
“Okie dokie. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
She shut the screen door and I was alone. I picked up the steel bucket and walked over to the side of the house.
The clouds were darkening. My phone showed it would likely rain in an hour. I started to weed and just like sharpening knives, the monotony let my mind drift.
It was Mom’s style to teach through analogy. Long ago, my two older brothers had a vicious fight—to which I was witness and instigator. After she broke it up, she snapped three small twigs in half. Then, she took three of the halves, bundled them together, and she tried the same. But this time, they wouldn’t break. She just handed them to us and walked away.
I chuckled to myself. Here again was another lesson.
It was true—weeding was an analogy to life. Weeds grow regardless of you uprooting them, just as problems always crop up in your life. But it’s up to you whether you’ll weed enough, before they start hindering the flowers and fruits of life, the things you care about.
As I looked at my grimy hands, dirt trapped underneath my fingernails, I felt that the analogy ran even deeper. It also applied to love.
Weeding is neither glamorous nor romantic. It’s completely unsexy.
You don’t see it on TV, in movies, or even in books.
It’s basically invisible. Overlooked. Small and boring.
And yet, it is perhaps the most important kind of work.
Weeding is about showing up, day in and day out. So it is with unconditional love. Mothers know this better than anyone.
While the grand gesture of an international trip with Mom was lovely, what she really needed was a son she could laugh with, talk to, rest on. Someone to spend unspecial time with. Someone who would weed.
Yes, there was irreparable damage. Her marriage was over. Her heart was broken. I was completely estranged from Dad, perhaps for life. The nuclear family I once envisioned had unraveled.
No grand gesture could fix all that. And neither could weeding.
But weeding could prevent another fallout.
I knew I could have been a better son before and during the divorce—I’d always known. I was too late in doing the hard, boring things for her.
But I was learning to weed, and if I kept it up, we would grow stronger. I was sure of that.
The bucket was full again, and I tossed the debris into the waste bin. As I walked back to the house, I suddenly remembered why that Hemingway line had sounded so familiar.
A few weeks ago, my comedian friend told me that after one of his shows, he and the other comics were backstage swapping childhood stories. That’s when they realized they had all grown up in split households. They laughed, shaking their heads, and my friend joked, “Are we all just broken people?”
Maybe we are. Maybe that’s why I write.
The world broke a part of me. And it broke an even larger part of Mom.
But she kept going. She prayed. She worked. She weeded. She loved.
Hemingway was right: the world breaks everyone. But afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
It started to drizzle. I looked up into the dark grayness above. There was something soothing about the way droplets fell onto my face. I just stood there for a while.
Then I smelled it—rain on asphalt.
(November 2024)
