We take Church Street
to Sixth Avenue,
turn at King,
and suddenly
we’re standing
at the door.
Tom nods,
urges me
toward it.
I freeze,
can’t move.
He nods.
I step forward, but
my fingers stop
midair.
They shake
like my knees.
Can’t ring that bell.
What if he answers?
What if he doesn’t?
TAKE YOUR TIME, TOM SAYS.
I sit down on the stoop.
He sits down next to me.
Just sixty years ago,
this wouldn’t
have been possible, he says,
shakes his head.
Huh? I say, not understanding.
Back then, our two countries
didn’t speak.
Oh. Back then, I say.
I’m not sure what he’s getting at.
Yeah. We were once enemies.
Now we’re friends.
Yeah, I say. That’s true.
And then I think
I get it:
Things change.
THINGS CHANGE.
People change.
I’ve changed.
I stand up,
walk to the door,
push my fingertip
into the little
brass button,
inhale,
ring the bell,
hold it
for what seems like
forever,
exhale.
NO ANSWER.
Isn’t Dad there?
Or his wife?
I ring again.
Then again.
Nothing.
It’s Sunday, Tom says,
standing up,
brushing
off his jeans.
Maybe they’re just out
for the day.
I try to stand up,
but I can’t.
I don’t want to leave,
I say.
Okay. We can stay here
for a while then,
Tom says, sitting
back down again.
He crosses his arms
over his chest and brings
his knees to his chin.
It gets chilly
as night
starts to fall.
I think we’d better go, Tom finally says.
I don’t want to leave, I say again.
I know, but your father isn’t here, Tom replies,
putting a hand on my shoulder.
I mean, I don’t want to leave New York, I explain.
I can’t believe I came all the way
and didn’t even
find my father.
Is that really why you came?
he asks.
I don’t know, I reply.
I think I know, he says.
I breathe in again,
think it through.
I thought I came
to get away,
but now I’m not so sure.
MAYBE DAD LEFT THIS APARTMENT YEARS AGO
like he left Japan—
without a trace.
You tried, Tom says,
standing up
from the stoop.
Nothing more you can do here.
But just in case
Dad comes back soon,
he urges me
to leave a note.
With my best English
penmanship
I write:
THIS IS KAI,
YOUR SON
FROM JAPAN.
PLEASE CONTACT ME.
I write my email
and my address
at the school.
Then I fold it like an
origami frog.
It’s my little joke.
Frog is kaeru in Japanese.
Kaeru also means
“come back.”
Just in case,
I stick it
under the door.
That’s it,
Tom says.
You’ve done
what you
could do.
But I’m not so sure.
There must be something more I can do.
Have you looked on Facebook?
Tom asks.
I don’t tell him I’ve lurked
around Dad’s profile before,
too chicken to connect.
But somehow
I think he knows.
Tom hands me his phone.
bite my lip,
type in Dad’s name,
hit Search.
A blurry photo
of a middle-aged guy
with shoulder-length blond hair,
tanned skin,
a few wrinkles around the eyes
comes up.
He’s wearing
a plaid flannel shirt
and jeans,
standing at an outdoor café.
Is that him?
Haven’t seen him in seven years.
Haven’t pulled up his page in a while,
looks like the picture’s changed.
Is that my dad?
Could be anyone’s dad.
Dad. I’m here in New York.
I type in the message box.
I’ve only got
one more day.
Please contact me.
Kai.
FIRST THING IN THE MORNING
When Tom shows up,
I use his phone
to check Facebook
and email.
Nothing.
I have to let it go.
It’s our last day
in New York,
and I want
to enjoy it.
(And it’s my birthday,
though I haven’t
told anyone.)
Tom and Fia take us to Coney Island
for hot dogs,
give us I ♥ NY T-shirts
and little Statue of Liberty
souvenirs, the kind
that rain snow
when you shake them.
Kenji treats us all to sushi lunch,
and we give them our
gifts from Japan,
teach them how to fold and wrap—
they love them all.
We exchange email addresses,
promise to stay in touch,
maybe come again.
IT’S OUR LAST NIGHT HERE—
Kenji says we have to celebrate
my birthday in style.
What? Who told you that?
A little birdie,
he says with a big smile.
Keiko!
That’s how we end up
eating oysters on the half shell
at the best oyster bar in New York,
where waiters in starched white shirts
and crisp black pants
pull out our chairs.
Mom would have laughed
to see where her
humble oysters
could have ended up.
Slurping the slimy lumps
I used to hate,
I’m surprised
to taste the ocean,
surprised at just
how good they are.
* Captain of the soccer team Raimon from the anime Inazuma Eleven
AS WE FLY BACK OVER THE PACIFIC
the ocean looks so calm,
so blue and clear,
from high above.
The flight attendants
hand out newspapers.
I open The Japan Times,
read about a 9/11 memorial in Tokyo,
people gathered to remember
twenty-three Fuji Bank workers
lost in the World
Trade Center—
twelve were Japanese.
Their families laid flowers
in front of a glass cabinet
encasing a small section
of steel from Ground Zero.
Bent but not broken,
the article says,
like the human spirit.
I used to think
stuff like that was corny.
I don’t anymore.
SHIN AND HIS FAMILY
are waiting at Sendai airport,
English sign held high.
We’re proud of you, Kai!
So un-Japanese
it makes me laugh.
I tell them about
the subway
and the hot dogs
and the pretzels
and the horse-drawn carriages
in Central Park.
I tell them about Ground Zero
and the grown-up
“survivors” I met
who were once kids
just like us.
And the oysters.
Next time you’re taking me,
Shin says.
Definitely! I say in English,
giving him a high five as
we walk toward
their borrowed car.
WHEN I SAY GOOD-BYE,
Kenji gives me a
birthday present,
to keep in touch—
a new cell phone
with his number
already in it.
WE DRIVE UP THE COAST,
pass the lone pine
standing like a flagpole,
bare and branchless
but proud,
rising from the crater
of my town.
Someone wrapped it
in braids of ceremonial white rope.
Strips of white paper
flutter from its
curved trunk.
70,000 pines on the coast—
now only one left.
173 years ago
it was just a seed.
It’s a miracle.
IF I HADN’T CLIMBED IT,
I wouldn’t
have survived.
That’s a miracle,
too.
I want to be
like that tree,
deep roots
making it strong,
keeping it
standing tall.
IN TOWN,
Old Man Sato’s at the docks
tending to his boats
like always.
Tadaima! I’m home!
I call out from the car window,
just like I said every day
arriving home from school,
where Mom was waiting.
Okaerinasai,
he shouts and waves.
Welcome home.
AT THE SHELTER, KEIKO IS KNITTING BOOTIES
for the new babies,
like Obaachan
used to do.
I raise my eyebrows.
When did you start that?
Life goes on,
she says, and smiles.
Then she shows me
piles of new futons,
beds, cookware, and tables,
refrigerators,
couches, and stoves
we’ll use
in our new homes.
We’re starting over.
And then I do
what I’ve always
wanted to do:
I lean in
toward Keiko
and kiss her.
And she
kisses
me back.
IT GETS EVEN BETTER
when a Japanese lady in Hawaii
tracks me down out of the blue,
says she’s found
my old soccer ball—
the one from Dad.
What? Hawaii?
She’s married to an American man,
found it while
walking on the beach.
She could understand
the kanji,*1
the well-wishes
from my friends
and Coach.
Can something like that really
happen?
How crazy is that?
Though I don’t even know her
she promises
to send it
back.
Shin swears
it’s a sign,
says if the ball
comes back,
we’ve got to be
ready to use it—
we’ve got
to give it
a home.
We’ve got to
trust this sign,
he insists.
We’ve got to
listen.
Okay, I say.
I’m listening.
WE TEACH THE KIDS
how to feint and head,
strike and trap.
They say they
don’t want to stop
once they move out
of the shelter,
move to temporary housing.
Do we have to stop?
I talk to Principal Kunihara
and Aki-sensei.
I’m dreaming up
a plan.
GUTS FOLLOWS ME EVERYWHERE,
showing me his moves.
I guess he missed me.
I guess I missed
him, too.
Now he knows
how to kick
with the instep,
not the toes,
how to juggle
as if catching the ball,
not kicking it,
how to see the openings
on the field
before shooting a pass.
He knows
what I myself forgot:
the ball is your friend.
EVERY DAY WE CLEAR THE LAND
above school,
tearing up weeds,
sifting out rocks,
leveling the ground.
Guts and his gang
show up with brooms
and rakes.
Village women
untangle torn fishing nets,
mend the holes.
Old Man Sato
strings them up
between bamboo poles,
and soon
we’ve got
our goals.
Even Taro helps.
We use
what we have.
EVERY DAY WE PRACTICE
until our legs ache.
I do my best
just in case
Shin’s theory is true.
If my ball
somehow
finds its way
to me,
can Dad
be far behind?
And maybe even
Mom?
Is it too much to hope for?
Will the people I love
come back?
ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN.
Shin’s dad, Aki-sensei,
and Principal Kunihara
say I’m good at soccer—
better than good.
They think we can even
form a team.
They say since I speak English,
I could play anywhere
in the world—
Brazil, Spain, England,
like Yuto Nagatomo,
who plays in Italy,
Keisuke Honda,
who went all the way to Russia
and Italy too,
and Shinji Kagawa,
who moved to England and
Germany.
It could happen, Shin says.
With your talent and the language,
you can do it,
Shin’s dad agrees.
But it’s been so long,
and I’m a wreck, I say.
I wonder if I can
get my skills back
after so many years.
But they believe it,
so I start to believe it, too.
My mind remembered English.
Will my body remember soccer?
THE QUAKE MOVED THE EARTH
ten inches
on its axis.
I guess
I shifted,
too.
WORD GETS OUT
about our team
playing on a crumbling pitch—
Seaside Eleven,
inspired by the anime
I used to love.
People all over Japan
send shoes and socks,
shin protectors,
jackets and clothes,
enough sports drinks
and snacks to last a year.
Kenji tells
our friends
in America,
who tell their friends
in England
and Europe,
who collect enough money
to buy us uniforms.
A Tokyo sports store
sends us soccer
balls and pumps.
A coach from
another town
arranges our
first match.
Feels like everyone
in the world
is cheering us on.
ELEVEN PLAYERS ON EACH SIDE—
the day of our first match.
Me, Shin, Guts, Taro Nishi,
and a handful of kids
from the shelter
against an inland team—
the Phoenix.
We make a line,
bow down deep
to thank the grounds,
like we always did
in practice,
like Coach Inoue
taught us.
My knees shake,
and I take
deep breaths
and wonder if
I’m going to faint.
But then
the whistle
blows.
Go!
MY EYES LOCK ON TARO,
who passes
me the ball.
It goes wide,
but I latch on to it,
dribble it
down the pitch fast
until the Phoenix sideback
swipes it away from me,
his foot like a sword.
Guts barrels in,
takes the ball away,
but they block
us at every turn—
we can’t get
near the goal.
Finally, Guts lands a nice clean pass
at Shin’s feet
just when he has an opening,
Shin slams it toward the net—
our chance!
But the Phoenix keeper
gets there first.
Big as a sumo wrestler
and strong like Ryu,