Somewhere Among Read online

  WATERING

  At commercial breaks

  Jiichan moves potted plants,

  following a patch of sun

  across the garden.

  Then at sunset

  I watch him

  water them

  with a tin cup

  tied to the end of a bamboo pole,

  dipping it

  again and again and again

  into a pail of water

  thump thump

  kotsun kotsun

  tin against plastic

  dribbling it

  so the soil doesn’t wash away from the roots.

  He climbs

  to water the bonsai

  bump bump  slosh slosh

  gotsun gotsun  bicha bicha

  the pail against the metal ladder.

  In America, Grandpa Bob has a hose.

  He stands in one place

  and sprays

  or puts a sprinkler at the end of it

  and goes inside to watch TV.

  I took a picture of the sprinkler once and showed it to Jiichan.

  He said, “American ingenuity.”

  “I will bring you a hose someday as a souvenir.

  To finish watering faster.”

  Obaachan said, “The water bill will be big.”

  MOM SAVES OBAACHAN MONEY

  Mom has always complained about

  Jiichan’s after-dinner cigarette.

  Papa told him doctors say,

  “Don’t smoke around a pregnant woman.”

  All smells bother Mom now. Even good ones.

  Like Jiichan’s hair gel.

  Today she stops eating her lunch and gags

  when Jiichan stirs up his natto.

  Fermented soybeans are stinky!

  So,

  Jiichan cannot smoke.

  Jiichan cannot wear his hair gel.

  Jiichan cannot eat natto.

  I know Obaachan doesn’t like food limitations

  but is happy

  about the cigarette warning.

  She wants Jiichan to stop smoking.

  “Our pension is going up in smoke,” she says.

  Poor Jiichan.

  He has to quit smoking, and

  quit eating his favorite food,

  and he has messy hair.

  NEIGHBORHOOD EYES

  Smells know no boundaries.

  On this sunny Tuesday

  the smell of curry rice, my favorite,

  drifts into the garden

  midafternoon

  from Mrs. Yamada’s.

  I haven’t had curry rice all summer.

  Outside the gate,

  I linger

  near her kitchen window

  listening to

  ton ton ton

  potato, carrot, onion, green pepper, chicken

  under the knife on the cutting board

  and breathing in

  each spicy snap, snap, snap

  of packaged broth cubes.

  Obaachan, in her kitchen apron,

  standing in the entry hall,

  tells me when I return,

  “Eyes and ears everywhere.”

  I know the neighborhood

  watches manners

  and looks out for kids,

  but she wants me to know

  she saw me lingering.

  She is watching me

  outside the house too.

  Upstairs, at Papa’s window,

  I enjoy whiffs of

  Mrs. Yamada’s bubbling curry.

  Mom vomits into one of the plastic bags

  she tucks at the edge of her futon.

  NEIGHBORHOOD EARS

  Here, houses huddle

  shoulder to shoulder

  in groups of five.

  Windows peer at one another,

  wide open except in winter.

  Thin walls, no insulation

  let cold in.

  Noise comes in and out.

  A phone ringing? Could be anyone’s.

  You can keep score

  on sports games without watching.

  Tonight Mr. Ito is singing along

  to enka (not my favorite.)

  He is pretty good, though.

  You’re not supposed to listen

  to other people’s private matters

  to other people talking

  to other people watching

  but it’s hard not to

  hear

  Mr. Ishii scraping his tongue at six thirty a.m.

  Mr. Yamada anytime after six forty-five but before seven.

  Jiichan, the first, at five.

  Tongue scraping,

  throat gargling,

  pan shuffling

  start the day.

  Gargling happens anytime someone returns home:

  mothers from errands

  children from school and play

  salarymen from work late at night.

  Hiro Ishii returns after high school cram school

  around six p.m.,

  our dinnertime.

  Mom vomits anytime all day long.

  I heard Obaachan apologize to Mrs. Ishii.

  SOUND OF SUMMER

  At noon,

  voices

  try to coax me out into the garden

  to look for them.

  This cycle of cicadas has waited

  seventeen years

  to crawl up from deep

  underground

  to shed their outer shells

  to sing.

  I have enjoyed

  cycles of cicada chorus

  and cicada hunts

  with friends at home.

  It’s not fair

  this sound of summer

  starts before summer break.

  I stop to listen

  to summer

  between exercises.

  NOTHING WILL CHANGE

  Daily summer assignments

  extra from Obaachan

  and

  no one

  to play with

  no one

  to meet

  no one

  to make friends with

  I am

  too far away

  from the park

  from the river

  from the shops

  stuck at Obaachan’s

  until school starts September first.

  A VISITOR FOR ME

  At four p.m.,

  the gate rattles;

  its rusted red metal bell dings.

  High heels click across the stone path.

  A teacher from the neighborhood school

  presents herself

  dressed in a navy blue suit

  she impresses Obaachan

  even more

  for slipping white cotton socks

  over her stockings

  before sliding into guest slippers.

  Obaachan serves glasses of mugicha.

  The teacher nods toward the glass of cold barley tea

  and says, “Thank you.”

  TV is silent.

  Jiichan and Mom too.

  We listen to explanations

  point by point of

  worksheets for practicing skills

  schedules for doing summer assignments

  schedules for taking supplies the first week

  of the fall term in September.

  This school and my school

  are on the same page.

  But

  this teacher compliments my Japanese

  like I have not spent almost five years in Japanese school

  like I have not made good grades in Japanese school

  like I am not Japanese.

  I do not want to go to her school.

  I tell Papa on the phone.

  He tells me “ganbatte.”

  I will have to endure

  until the semester finishes in December.

  I tell him

  I will make an effort


  to cooperate

  to endure with strength and patience

  like he told me.

  SEA DAY

  A national holiday

  a break from schoolwork

  cicadas are in full song

  high in the treetops.

  I watch Jiichan digging

  through the shed

  for Papa’s old net.

  He stops

  takes off his hat, and

  wipes his head.

  He looks tired.

  “I am too old for cicada catching,” I tell him.

  We take a break for

  cicada listening

  on the stoop outside the TV room

  until mosquitoes chase us inside.

  Jiichan offers to walk down to the river.

  “I am too tired,” I tell him.

  He smiles

  gratitude.

  JULY 20, 2001

  CALL OF THE SEA

  Papa cannot afford to come to Obaachan’s.

  He calls to tell me to look

  in the bottom desk drawer.

  It’s like digging through

  a treasure chest of his past.

  What am I looking for?

  My hand knows before I do

  something feels different

  from all the metal and plastic—

  a small chipped shell

  I hold

  to my ear

  hold my breath

  and hear

  the sea.

  I rush downstairs

  to hold it to Mom’s belly

  for this baby to hear

  then to Mom’s ear.

  I let Jiichan hear.

  (Obaachan is too busy with dinner.)

  Thank you, Papa,

  for this Sea Day holiday.

  JULY 20, 2001

  LOW AND HIGH

  Eyes lowered,

  not watching the TV,

  Jiichan and Obaachan

  chew in small circles

  and swallow

  grilled fish, rice, and summer tomatoes,

  listening to

  an update of the Ehime Maru,

  its mast will be dynamited

  girded

  and lifted

  from the sea.

  I look across the table at Mom

  her back to the TV screen;

  the beat of her favorite Train tune

  bangs in her headphones,

  blasting a smile on her face.

  She pinches

  the fish on her plate

  folds back

  its scales

  and lifts the spine

  from its flesh.

  Using chopsticks was the first table manners she learned here.

  Patting her hand and pointing

  to the news coverage of

  the anniversary of Apollo 11,

  America’s moonwalk,

  I bring her back to Earth.

  Mom smiles at me.

  She and Grandpa Bob and Nana share this memory.

  Jiichan and Obaachan and Papa watched here at this table.

  Now Mom and Jiichan and Obaachan and I share this,

  saying, “Wow,”

  with each detail,

  each image.

  JULY 21, 2001

  LETTING OUT

  Bringing in the laundry

  will be my summer

  helping-at-home

  homework.

  Starting before it counts,

  I lean outside Papa’s window

  snapping

  socks

  underwear

  pajamas

  towels

  rags

  from hangers,

  watching

  students pass by

  toting home

  each day

  a different bag

  paint sets

  sewing kits

  calligraphy sets

  gym clothes

  desk supply boxes.

  I know it’s the last day of school

  when I see the bags of

  indoor shoes

  and padded emergency hoods

  we keep on the backs of our school chairs

  for fire and earthquake drills.

  I try not to tell Mom how much

  I do not want to go to school here.

  BLUE STARBURSTS

  Mothers haul home

  from school

  potted morning glories

  in their bicycle baskets.

  Part of first graders’

  summer homework is to:

  keep their morning glory alive

  watch it grow

  take notes

  collect seeds

  make a paper gift box

  to present to new first graders

  when the new school year starts next April.

  Morning glory care builds a connection between students

  for the future.

  Next year in sixth grade

  we will grow pots of rice

  at my old school

  and pass along the seeds to the fifth graders.

  I am not a part of this neighborhood.

  WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

  I am not going to think about

  September

  when I will start school

  here

  in a class

  where everyone has been together

  since the first day of school in April

  where everyone has a group of friends

  since the first day of first grade

  where everyone has a place in the neighborhood

  since they were born.

  I will be the outsider.

  But I’m not going

  to think about that now.

  I’ve already written but not sent

  summer greeting cards

  (from Papa’s leftovers)

  to my friends

  in my old neighborhood

  telling them to watch for me

  with my papa this year

  at the summer festival.

  This will be my free time for fun.

  I’m going to think about that.

  THOUGHTS OF FUN

  Wearing yukata

  going back with Papa

  to enjoy

  eating octopus legs on sticks, cotton candy in bags

  snagging water balloons, plastic prizes

  scooping goldfish, super balls

  watching fireworks, looking for friends

  firing rockets, sparking sparklers

  these things I am thinking, asking

  but

  Obaachan reminds me

  how hard the trip is for Papa

  tells me not to ask to go

  tells me Papa needs to save energy

  tells me there will be fireworks here in August.

  Obaachan gets her way.

  Jiichan mails my corrected,

  ink-smudged greeting cards.

  I’m too embarrassed

  to send them

  too embarrassed

  to hand them

  to the postwoman.

  I can watch my hometown fireworks on TV.

  It won’t be the same.

  Obaachan is a fun killer.

  FREE TIME?

  Mom suggests things to do

  to keep me busy.

  How about reading English aloud?

  She brought plenty of storybooks.

  “That’s boring,” I tell her. (Actually, it’s too hard.)

  Needlepoint?

  She brought her bag of work.

  “That’s complicated.” (Actually, it’s too hot.)

  Collage?

  She brought scissors.

  I have my school scissors and glue bottle.

  She selects the magazines

  and we begin.

  THE PROJECT

  I am making a card for American Grandparents Day,

  to get it in the mail early

 
way before September ninth.

  Nana likes flower gardening.

  Grandpa Bob likes space travel.

  Both like rainbow viewing.

  I decide to tear not cut

  small pieces of paper.

  Mom says,

  “Oh, like chigiri-e.”

  I say, “Yes, East meets West,”

  something she says when she cooks.

  Dabbing the pieces with glue

  I fill in my drawings of

  flowers falling

  from the space shuttle flying

  over a rainbow map of America,

  something for both Nana and Grandpa Bob.

  I tell Mom she can have all the magazine flower photos.

  I fill in blank spaces

  with my old set of Pocket Monsters crayons

  I keep in Papa’s desk.

  Mom cuts and spells out words

  nouns:

  peace

  future

  hope

  adjectives:

  quiet

  strong

  harmonious

  verbs:

  wait . . .

  is she making this an English lesson?

  ADDING TO THE LIST

  Mom cuts out pictures

  filling in a black marker circle

  on newspaper

  calling it a mandala

  saying, “East meets West.”

  We laugh.

  I find the word “happy,”

  cut it out, and give it to her.

  She smiles.

  I write “Happy Days” in NASA pen ink

  at the top of my card.

  Japan has Respect for the Aged Day

  on September fifteenth this year.

  Obaachan says that is not the same thing

  as Grandparents Day.

  It is a different day.

  KILLING FUN

  Obaachan makes a schedule of my summer days.

  She doesn’t give me a break.

  A DAY OUT

  Jiichan says I need

  to get out of the house

  to stand in line

  to see Miyazaki’s newest movie.

  TV says it is already his biggest hit.

  Obaachan suggests

  going on Tuesday,

  seniors’ free admission day

  at the cinema two stations away.

  IN THE ENTRY HALL ON TUESDAY

  Doors of the shoe cabinet slide

  back and forth;

  Jiichan is selecting his shoes.

  Obaachan mumbles

  low, deep.

  Mumble, slide. Mumble, slide. Mumble, slide.

  Jiichan stands in silence.

  Obaachan is having a conversation

  with the shoe cabinet.