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
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