face to face
to explain plans to bring
nine boys and men
of the Ehime Maru
up from under the sea.
They think these sons,
brothers,
fathers,
husbands
are entombed
in the wreck.
I feel the depth
of sadness
in the room
on the officials’ faces
on the family members’ faces
on Jiichan’s face.
I cannot control
a tear from streaking
my face.
I smudge it into my wrist
and join Mom and this baby
in Great-Grandfather’s room
cocooned among pillows,
books, and family magazines.
AUGUST 19, 2001
GIANT FISH HEADING TOWARD TOKYO
The TV tracks Typhoon Pabuk,
named after a big fish in Laotian,
raging across Japan,
killing twenty people already,
delaying trains and airplanes.
Papa is stuck at the office
and cannot walk to the train station
to go home.
And a rocket
we’ve been waiting to watch
is waiting for an airplane
to bring a replacement valve
so it can take off on the twenty-ninth.
AUGUST 21, 2001
CAUGHT
Far inland
we are
bashed by
wind and rain.
Obaachan fusses at Jiichan for not
replacing batteries
in the emergency-supplies shed.
Giant Fish Typhoon catches us
with a dead flashlight
but luckily we don’t lose power.
CLEAR SKIES
After four days of rain
of staying inside
Jiichan and I go out.
He is stiff from sitting
but manages raking and sweeping.
Obaachan washes lunch dishes.
Mom naps.
I ride my bike to the shops
to buy sliced pork,
tomatoes,
lettuce,
greens
for dinner
and batteries
for the flashlight.
A mom passes me
a wilted morning glory
in her basket
flutters its way back to school.
Kids my age
kids who may be in class
with me in a week
fill the streets.
Some carry insect nets
some carry cram-schoolbags
some carry groceries in their bicycle baskets.
Kids own the streets today!
No one notices me
no one knows me
and
summer is almost over!
The city chimes tell us to head back
home.
I wish I could.
NEWS BREAK
For my summer read-aloud assignments,
Obaachan makes me stand.
But tonight, after dinner,
I read the assignment,
a happy story
about forest animals,
to Mom’s belly.
Jiichan claps when I finish.
Obaachan gives me a low mark for posture
on my performance card.
I tell Jiichan this baby is already learning.
This baby can hear everything we say and do.
Jiichan picks up the newspaper and reads aloud
in Mom’s direction.
I suggest the entertainment page.
Jiichan’s voice booms like a drum
and makes this baby tap, tap, tap.
That makes Jiichan smile, smile, smile.
He doesn’t notice he’s missed the evening news.
ON SCHEDULE
The sun comes in and out
every other day.
I finish my summer homework
with multiple repetitions.
Obaachan huffs in relief.
The replacement valve
for
Japan’s National Space Development Agency’s H2A rocket
made it through the storm, so it
blasts off
soaring into space
to release a satellite
hoping to keep an eye on North Korea’s
future missile experiments.
Jiichan sighs in relief.
AUGUST 29, 2001
Hanabi, fire flowers,
postponed by the typhoon,
explode in partly cloudy skies
down by the swollen river.
We watch on TV
smiley faces and morning glories and
my favorite, chrysanthemums,
bursting.
After the finale
firecrackers pop, whistle, squeal
in parks, gardens, other neighborhoods.
Papa calls to tell me
to endure my time
at school here
patiently.
I do not want to go to bed,
but I do.
I do not want tomorrow to come,
but it does.
I do not want to wake up,
but I do.
SEPTEMBER 2001
ON TIME
I open the shutters to
the sun
up hours before I wake
it makes me feel late.
When I leave the house,
Mom says,
“Hang in there.”
I leave thinking I would rather stay here
at “Obaachan’s School.”
SCHOOL
In an apartment parking lot,
students and I wait
wearing summer clothes
holding our bags of emergency hoods
and our bags of indoor shoes.
I will be invisible
until I walk into a classroom.
But I see them
look at me
from the corners of their eyes.
First graders in required yellow hats
cluster.
Classmates group.
I stand alone.
A line forms;
two sixth graders lead
one from the front
one from the back.
Mothers in threes
along the street
hold yellow flags at each intersection
reminding drivers
school has started.
Some mothers greet us.
We greet.
Some mothers are statues.
We pass in silence.
We take our cues from them.
Last night, a flag came to the house
with instructions from a PTA member.
Jiichan is on the street,
smiling,
filling in for Mom.
SEPTEMBER 1, 2001
PART OF THE DRILL
At the shoe shelves,
in the hall,
in the classroom,
I’m still invisible.
The boy with cold eyes
from the clump of trees at the broken gravestones is here.
I see now he is big for his age.
Like me.
Teacher introduces me.
Row after row of names is called. For me.
Everyone sees me now
that I have a name.
That big boy’s name is Masa.
No time for looking at me,
for troublemaking or for chatting
just time enough for
listening to Teacher’s instructions,
crawling under our desks,
covering our heads with our emergency hoods.
I think of Papa on the other side of
Tokyo
doing drills with other salarymen.
They practice saving each other.
After the last drill
Teacher leads us (wearing our hoods)
outside to the playground
to hand us over to our moms
after a speech
and a moment of silence at noon
in memory of the big earthquake
on this day in 1923.
Jiichan stands in for Mom again.
We walk his bicycle back.
Mom is napping next to the table.
Obaachan has cold tea and homemade onigiri waiting.
They have already eaten.
Jiichan eats one onigiri and nods off
after a weeklong check of every item
in the emergency shed.
We are all a little more prepared for
the Big One, one like the 1923 earthquake,
scientists say will hit Tokyo again
in the future.
For now, I’m more worried about Masa,
the boy with the cold eyes.
And I have all Sunday to worry about him.
STANDING OUT
One look in the mirror
and I know what happened.
Last night, shutters open,
I moved off my futon
looking for a slice of full moon
and fell asleep.
This morning
my whole right side
is cratered
with the imprint of tatami.
First full day of class I face giggles
and Masa’s baby talk at recess
asking me if I know how to use a futon.
Everyone laughs and runs away.
I look kind of funny?
Out of this world?
hahahaha
I understand what you’re really saying.
FIRST SCHOOL ASSEMBLY
The principal announces
stranger danger on the streets.
First week “walking to school” groups
become “walking from school” groups too
indefinitely.
My first thought—
Masa won’t be in my group!
Second thought—
A chance to make friends.
Third thought—
Yikes! Stranger danger.
We walk along. Looking.
What will we do when we see a dangerous stranger?
I see Jiichan
on his bike following us.
I wait for him in the garden.
He looks tired, but smiles
and points to the sign on his bicycle basket:
MAMA PATROL.
Jiichan is my official mom.
THE SCREAMER
I hand Obaachan a note from school
with an order form for a screamer.
Small but loud
it screams
when the string is pulled.
Teacher suggests we carry it at all times
and move it from bag to bag
schoolbag to cram-schoolbag to soccer bag.
In my case, schoolbag to
errand bag.
Kids are alone on the street after Mama Patrol hours.
I’m not.
But without hesitation or complaint
or a word to Mom,
Obaachan fills out the form
puts it and the money
in the envelope
and stamps it
stone to paper
with the household seal
for everyday expenses.
BAG BY BAG
I am moving
into this school.
I hide my NASA pen
in my desk box.
I hold on to it
at my desk
sitting,
listening,
paying attention.
Without my NASA pen
at the board
in line for lunch or for the toilet
in the music room or in the gym,
I look down
at the scuffs
and the dust
from my old school
on my indoor shoes.
FLOWER HEADS
Group by group
we tape
our English practice papers
to the classroom wall.
Teacher put a circle
next to each correct answer.
Instead of a number score,
she drew
a flower head
at the top.
A complete flower head,
a center spiral with
curly petals all around,
is a full mark.
Less detail,
the lower the score.
My paper
has all circles,
and at the top
a circle spun into a spiral
complete with petals.
I tape it to the wall
stand back to look at my full mark, and
glance at the paper next to mine—
all slashes and at the top
the beginning
of a spiral
and
the name
written in romaji,
the roman alphabet—
MASA.
I feel his cold eyes on me
all the way back to my chair.
INVITATION
Sachiko from class
and from my “walking to and from school” group
is free on Tuesdays and Thursdays
from ballet and piano lessons.
She asks me to play
(game players)
in the park
when it’s sunny
but I can’t
Obaachan says
I shouldn’t start anything new.
This is family time.
There is a danger on the street.
Besides, I don’t have a game player.
I tell Sachiko, “Let’s play at recess.”
Later among the papers I stuffed
in my parent-message bag,
I find a permission slip
for swimming class tomorrow.
All night I hope it keeps raining!
CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF SWIM CLASS
I ask Mom to sign the permission slip
to say I cannot get into the pool.
Like a school pool card,
it has a checklist: fever
vomiting
colds
scrapes
bug bites
I checked but have no checks
except for
the mosquito bite on my belly
I scratched until it bled.
Mom excuses me.
This is the last swim class of fifth grade.
I do not want to swim at this school
I missed school swim lessons this summer
I am behind.
I would rather sit on a bench
and let them wonder
what is wrong with me.
This is the first time I’m glad
mosquitoes think I’m tasty.
No matter.
All the rain made
the pool too dirty for class.
Sachiko and I have a chance for fun.
We make mud balls at recess.
SCHOOL CLEANUP
Masa’s group has brooms.
Sachiko’s has dustpans.
Mine has wet zōkin.
Sweepers sweep into dustpans,
we follow
washing the floor
dipping our rags
in pails of water.
Masa’s not sweeping;
he’s zigzagging through brooms
clicking handle to handle
everyone ignoring him.
He runs full steam
my group
parts out of his way
I freeze
he rams my thigh with his broom.
I sink i
nto silence
to the floor.
Everyone sees,
everyone hears
no one listens
no one comes to my rescue
no one does anything,
says anything.
I double in pain
and disappear at my desk
into a spot,
ink black.
No one has hit me before. Ever.
Sachiko tells me to ignore Masa.
BREAKING A RULE
I don’t wait
for my “walking to and from” group.
I run headlong
into the garden
to Jiichan,
ready to go on patrol.
Panicked,
thinking stranger danger first,
his eyes
become so sad
seeing and hearing
about the bruise
about Masa.
Three times
he places his hand over the bruise,
throws his hand back saying,
“Pain, pain, fly away!”
like I am a child who has fallen down.
Obaachan hovers at the front door.
“Please don’t do anything.
Please don’t tell Mom. Or Papa.”
Obaachan says nothing
puts on a clean apron
and waits.
One hour. Two.
The gate bell is silent.
No apology is coming.
REACTIONS
“Unacceptable,” Obaachan says.
Even an accident requires apology.
She calls the school.
The gate bell dings at dinnertime.
Obaachan is in the wrong apron.
Jiichan stays with Mom at the table.
Teacher bows low to Obaachan
gives apologies
for the late hour
for my bruise
for not knowing.
“Poor thing,” she says to me,
wants to see it, and is surprised
by its size. As big as a five-hundred-yen coin.
Obaachan stiffens
then says directly
that it is Masa’s mother’s place to apologize.
Teacher turns red. “That is not possible.”
Obaachan’s silence pushes for an apology.
Teacher tries to disappear into the wall,
explains in a small voice,
“It cannot be helped.”
“I am sorry,” Teacher tells me.
Down close to my face, she says, smiling,
“Tell me first if anything happens.”
Obaachan’s slippers
scuff
heavier than usual
down the hallway behind me.
I pretend I am asleep when Papa calls.