Locked my heart to Seoul

At the bottom there is a bug. Dressed up in wings of a patterned print he sits first in line as we wait for our ride up the mountain. With the tower tall above our heads and the city sprawling in all directions the bug seems tiny-small, but still significant, tiptoe over to avoid squishing.

The cable car swings its way up Mt. Namsan. A girl cries in mother’s arms as our glass box lifts up off the concrete and floats over treetops. A red road winds up the slope, tiny bicycles and joggers moving in and out of eyesight.

At the top there is a lock, on it is another, another, thousands. Painted on the locks are hearts, dates, names, and mini engagement pictures. For year couples have been coming here, snapping shut promises and tossing out the keys.

We spin the combination pads and lose ourselves in the view of the city. As we glide back down it gets bigger, bigger, bigger. At the bottom the bug is gone, but I decide he has not been squished, has many years ahead of him. Dizzy with lock romantics, I convince myself he’s left because he found another bug to share his life with.