Somewhere Among Read online

  I step past them

  into my shoes

  and out the door.

  Gacha!

  snaps

  the cabinet

  where Jiichan’s best shoes are stored.

  A few comments about whether

  he needs his best shoes or not

  and

  the conversation ends.

  Obaachan makes suggestions to me

  and Mom before we go out

  about handkerchiefs,

  about socks (holes!)

  about shoes

  about umbrellas

  about . . .

  Poor Jiichan.

  He took her attention away from me today.

  ON THE WAY TO THE TRAIN STATION

  My parasol shades

  the back of Jiichan’s heels.

  A pair of swallows

  spiral and duck

  one at a time

  under the awning of a soba shop.

  “Lucky place,” Jiichan says, “to have swallows choose you.”

  We pass

  the clump of trees,

  a performance hall of cicadas,

  where a group of gravestones sit.

  Cool air invites us in.

  But you should never go into a graveyard

  unless

  you have connections to a grave

  Obaachan has always warned me

  not to go inside for cicadas

  not to even look inside.

  But I look.

  I am bound

  to look

  from the corners of my eyes

  to say sorry

  to the old stones

  broken stones

  no one takes care of

  no one visits

  no one sees

  except

  my eyes

  my eyes are drawn there.

  Looking

  back at me

  today,

  a boy’s cold eyes

  make me look away.

  My foot kicks a pebble.

  It bounces off Jiichan’s butt.

  I say, “Sorry.”

  He doesn’t notice.

  AT THE TRAIN STATION

  On our own

  with Jiichan’s pocket money,

  we buy two train tickets,

  two salmon-filled onigiri,

  and two cans of cold tea.

  He hands one of each to me.

  I place the can on my neck and sigh.

  Jiichan laughs.

  On the platform

  we find a bench

  in the shadow of Mitsubishi Bank

  at the south exit.

  My first bite

  crackles seaweed

  and

  flakes down my dress.

  His first swig

  dribbles tea

  and

  streams down his chin.

  He doesn’t wipe it away.

  On my last bite of rice, salmon, and seaweed

  he hands me his handkerchief

  knowing I always forget mine.

  Even if Obaachan reminds me,

  I avoid taking off my shoes

  and running upstairs

  by telling her,

  “Somebody’s always handing out tissues at the station.”

  Today no tissues.

  Sweat beads on Jiichan’s cheek.

  We sigh together.

  And wait.

  AT THE CINEMA BOX OFFICE

  An hour

  or two in line

  we wait

  just to get to the ticket window.

  The clerk hesitates.

  Jiichan reaches through the glass

  to show the cover of my boshi techo

  to show my birth date

  to show I can get the elementary school student rate.

  I am big for my age, but no one mentions it

  here

  now.

  Someday I will have my own photo ID

  when I am in junior high

  no one will ask me my age.

  Jiichan doesn’t have to show

  his ID for free senior admission.

  He looks his age.

  IN THE LOBBY

  A poster for Pearl Harbor

  stands out

  by itself.

  Not many people stand in line

  for that movie.

  AFTER THE MOVIE

  Jiichan says he’s worried about nightmares.

  —I am thinking of baby names—

  Yubaba, the old witch in the movie,

  changes the names of her workers

  so they forget who they are

  so she has power over them.

  I am thinking this baby needs a name now.

  I tell Jiichan, “Don’t worry. I never have nightmares,”

  even though

  being spirited away

  forgetting my name

  and

  Yubaba herself

  scare me.

  I look for the graveyard eyes.

  They aren’t there on the way back.

  Later I realize

  maybe Jiichan is worried he will have nightmares.

  AUGUST 2001

  HIROSHIMA ANNIVERSARY

  Every house is burning

  incense

  except this one

  because of Mom.

  TVs blare the same scene—

  crushes of people

  at the broken dome

  at the Tower of a Thousand Cranes

  at ground zero where America dropped an atomic bomb.

  A bell strikes the time

  Obaachan and Jiichan bow their heads

  sirens there blast

  sirens here cry

  echo

  slip away

  a moment of silence

  cicadas

  screech

  sizzle

  wail

  wind chimes

  strike house by house

  incense

  reaches my nose

  doves scatter

  toward the sky of Hiroshima

  TV by TV

  like the neighborhood is taking flight.

  Behind closed doors,

  Mom is vomiting into one of her plastic bags.

  AUGUST 6, 2001

  ANNIVERSARY OF AMERICA DROPPING ANOTHER ATOMIC BOMB ON JAPAN

  Obaachan and Jiichan each light

  one stick of incense

  snuff them out

  after praying at the family altar.

  pin pon pan pon

  the jingle

  for public announcements

  and emergencies

  alerts us

  to

  a moment of silence

  beginning at

  11:02 a.m.

  Channels switch to

  the mayor of Nagasaki speaking out

  against nuclear weapons,

  warning about them

  expanding into space.

  His voice echoes

  house to house.

  Sirens tell us to be silent.

  We bow.

  A loudspeaker there and here tells us,

  “Finished.”

  Mom is with us.

  Jiichan is lost to us.

  He disappears behind his eyes,

  a boy again

  in the hills

  watching

  outside Nagasaki.

  I have never seen him like this.

  We are usually in America

  this time of year.

  AUGUST 9, 2001

  VISIT TO OBAACHAN’S FAMILY GRAVE

  Before leaving the garden,

  Obaachan places a small plate of salt

  outside the gate

  to use when we return.

  With tools and a stool,

  parasols and incense,

  chrysanthemums and canned tea,

  Jiichan, Obaachan, and I set out on foot.

  We pass

  the c
lump of trees

  of broken gravestones

  and cicadas.

  In the deep cool

  a boy with a net

  moves into scattered light.

  I see his face, his cold eye.

  I recognize that look and look away.

  I hush a gasp so Obaachan won’t know I was looking.

  THE VISIT

  Dead-of-summer

  humid

  nothing is hotter than standing on stone,

  surrounded by stone.

  Shrubs and ornamental trees cast short shade.

  Obaachan wanted to come today

  on Great-Grandmother’s birthday.

  She sets up

  on the folding stool

  under her parasol

  like an eel in the shadows

  zapping Jiichan

  zapping me

  with orders:

  “Clip this, clip that

  Scrub here, scrub there”

  with proper tools

  in a proper bag

  reserved especially

  for the graveyard.

  TAKING CARE

  We

  snip snip choki choki

  stainless steel clippers

  rounding

  scraggly heads of cedar.

  We

  shoosh shoosh goshi goshi

  reed bristles

  brushing

  hollow names of ancestors.

  We

  thump thump kotsun kotsun

  tin cups

  watering

  wilted plants, crusted stones.

  Jiichan and I are lost in robotics.

  I am thinking

  about the bones

  the pieces of bones

  in the ceramic jars

  under the cover stone

  while I am

  snipping and shooshing and thumping

  arranging flowers and canned tea

  lighting incense

  praying

  for them all.

  These are the things we do for the dead.

  This is the grave of Obaachan’s ancestors.

  My ancestors.

  There is nothing

  no thing

  left of Jiichan’s family

  to snip, shoosh, and thump over

  in Nagasaki.

  NAMES

  Jiichan struggles with the incense

  trying to put it out before we leave.

  A breeze does not help him.

  The wooden slats of Buddhist names

  given after death

  click click against the railing

  behind the pillar stone

  of Obaachan’s family name.

  I run my fingers

  across relatives’ first names

  chiseled into the stone

  next to the pillar.

  Obaachan must think I am checking my cleaning skills.

  I am looking at names

  looking for possible choices

  possible kanji choices

  for this baby.

  Some I cannot read.

  Some I do not like.

  None I would choose for this baby.

  RETURNING

  At the gate

  Obaachan pinches and throws

  salt at Jiichan’s chest

  he turns

  at his back

  she throws another pinch.

  He sprinkles salt on her

  front and back

  then me

  front and back

  so uninvited spirits

  won’t follow us through the gate.

  ENTERING

  A fly enters the front door ahead of us.

  A melon has been sitting at the family altar

  until it is ready to eat.

  It is ready to eat.

  The fly is ready.

  Mom is there,

  round as a melon,

  waiting,

  ready to eat too.

  PHONE JUGGLING

  Grandpa Bob tells me he misses my summer visit.

  Nana gets on the phone,

  says they will visit

  after the baby comes,

  says she can’t wait to get all my sugar.

  Grandpa Bob, back on the phone,

  asks me how everybody is doing, and

  asks if I saw the launch of Discovery

  (no?)

  and describes the fireball thrusting;

  its vapor trail

  towering

  splitting

  the clear blue sky.

  He tells me two Russians and one American

  will dock at the International Space Station.

  “We had a joint mission in space twenty-six years ago,”

  he tells me. “Back during the Cold War.”

  We were enemies then.

  Before he hangs up, he says, “Give everyone my best.”

  AUGUST 11, 2001

  UP IN ARMS

  Jiichan stops mid-crunch

  listens, with a mouthful

  of rice crackers, to

  the TV report of

  Prime Minister Koizumi’s visit to

  Yasukuni Shrine

  to pay his respects to the war dead

  of World War II.

  Some of the war dead

  are war criminals

  so

  other countries express opinions

  saying a government official

  should not visit the shrine.

  China,

  North and South Korea, and

  America are mad.

  Some people here are mad too.

  Jiichan swallows

  gets up from the table

  to pray earlier than usual.

  AUGUST 13, 2001

  DESERTED

  I watch neighbors

  leaving for Obon,

  rushing for trains

  returning to their hometowns

  to visit family members

  dead or alive.

  There are no living relatives visiting

  at Obaachan’s

  except Mom and me

  and Papa!

  He makes Obaachan bearable.

  We dust and wipe

  sweep and vacuum

  until

  pika pika

  a sparkling house

  and

  kuru kuru

  a spinning paper lantern

  flash and guide spirits of our family

  back to visit.

  I wonder if any spirits from America will be coming.

  PAPA

  Came, slept, left.

  VICTORY OVER JAPAN DAY

  Jiichan surfs through channels

  stops at

  CNN reporting

  the anniversary of the announcement

  of Japan’s surrender to the United States in WWII,

  showing old photos

  of crowds

  of New York’s Times Square

  of a famous kiss.

  Jiichan listens to the translation.

  Mom passes through from the toilet, says,

  “Ah! That’s a famous photo!”

  Mom is rosy-faced.

  It is a happy picture.

  Jiichan has never seen it before.

  He says he remembers that day, though.

  Mom’s face grows redder.

  AUGUST 15, 2001

  A FIRST

  chirin chirin!

  From the window, I see

  Jiichan standing beside a bicycle,

  a small one

  for me!

  From inside, I hear Obaachan say,

  “A used bicycle! You bring other people’s luck here!”

  Jiichan talks back,

  says, “No money for a new bike.”

  I circle back to the kitchen

  before running outside.

  A shower of salt

  rains from my hand

  and pelts the bike.

  It is an auspicio
us day:

  I make my own luck

  I have a bike here

  I make Obaachan laugh.

  I think it was a laugh.

  ERRANDS

  My world becomes a whole lot wider.

  Having a bike at Obaachan’s house is a wish

  I never thought of making.

  Jiichan can ride his bike when we go out together.

  He says I am a natural,

  like a fish in water.

  He has forgotten

  I ride one at home.

  I follow right behind his bicycle

  and carry groceries in my basket.

  So much easier to shop by bike.

  Try carrying bags while balancing a parasol!

  The parasol has to stay

  in the entry hall.

  A city umbrella law says

  no umbrellas while riding bikes.

  Only problem now—

  stopping

  and backtracking to pick up

  the huge sun hat Mom makes me wear.

  AT THE POST OFFICE WITH JIICHAN

  Stamp possibilities plaster the bulletin board.

  Nana and Grandpa Bob like pretty stamps.

  They send packages

  with rows of them.

  I hand the Grandparents Day card to the postwoman.

  A little overweight

  two hundred yen,

  the price of two canned teas.

  I choose four stamps from

  the Seasonal Splendors in Tokyo II series of

  seasonal flowers:

  hydrangeas, chrysanthemums, camellias, cherry blossoms

  at fifty yen each.

  I sponge them onto the card.

  The corner of the envelope

  is soggy.

  The postwoman inspects it

  mumbles, hesitates,

  but accepts it.

  “By September ninth?”

  “Before.”

  I believe her.

  From here to there,

  Japan to America,

  mail usually goes faster.

  Honest.

  BY HAND

  I’d rather be on a plane

  on my way to deliver it.

  Summer greeting cards

  from my friends

  come

  one by one

  reminding me

  I am not forgotten

  reminding me

  someone somewhere

  is having a good summer.

  That’s usually me,

  too.

  At Grandpa Bob and Nana’s.

  NEWS FROM UWAJIMA

  Southwest of Tokyo

  US Navy officials have come