I have been to friends’ houses; their mothers are not so picky.
Later, while Mom naps,
Obaachan strongly suggests
we discourage visitors, and
mentions dusty,
sweaty,
holey socks
on the floors
where we sit,
eat,
and sleep.
Besides, my lessons were disturbed, Obaachan says.
I gently tell Mom.
She is disappointed,
almost a little mad, but says,
“Good thing my supervisor didn’t come—
his feet stink.”
She tells me stinky-feet stories about
how the faculty avoids
end-of-year parties at restaurants
where you have to take your shoes off.
We have lots of what Mom calls
“belly laughs.”
Good for this baby. Good for us.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD
A day late
but at the same time
fireworks are bursting
in America’s air
Mom and I are eating a midmorning
bowl of yogurt
with bottled blueberry sauce
and a Japanese cherry on top
in place of our traditional
evening dessert of
raspberry and blueberry crumble
topped with vanilla ice cream
(no oven at Obaachan’s).
America’s Independence Day
is not a school holiday
but Obaachan lets me have today
off from studies.
Noon here
night there
a news clip at lunch
is the first time
I’ve seen fireworks in America
in real time
on their fourth of July.
JULY 5, 2001
FEELS LIKE SHOOTING STARS
bursting
sparkling
fizzling
in my heart
I missed
Tanabata
with my friends at school
making decorations
making wishes
and singing songs
without them
for the first time
I feel
how Mom must feel
being far away
from celebrations.
I can only watch
and sing along
with children on TV,
“Bamboo leaves
rustle and sway
at the eaves
Stars twinkle
on gold and silver sand
I have written
on colorful paper strips
Stars twinkle
watching from above.”
JULY 7, 2001
THE DAY AFTER
Obaachan stands over
Jiichan untying paper
stripping leaves
feeding flames
in a rusted paint can
to send our wishes
up, up, up
into the universe.
They will come back to us
if our hearts are pure.
From Papa’s window
I watch
ashes
curl and climb
up, up, up
into the air.
Great-Grandfather’s palm
bats
and catches
wisps.
Obaachan climbs the ladder
fans a newspaper
with one hand
to free them
up, up, up
away from the tree.
Burning trash is forbidden,
but Obaachan risks paying a fine.
I hear her tell Jiichan
no one gets a ticket for burning wishes.
RETURNED
Obaachan’s slippers
clobber
the stairs
up, up, up
to Papa’s room.
She knocks
don don don don don
finds my wrist
presses
my blue-sky wish
into my hand
and says,
“An only child can have a room alone.”
MY SELFISHNESS
Obaachan says nothing else to me.
But I know—
“Thinking about wrong behavior
is punishment.”
Everyone in this house
has no brothers or sisters.
Everyone in this house
knows I want a brother or sister.
Everyone in this house
wants this baby.
I don’t tell Mom about the wish.
She would tell me
we make our own luck
with our thoughts.
Besides,
a school friend, Hiroko,
has a little sister
and a room of her own.
So, it’s not out-of-this-world
impossible.
And if wishes do have power,
the Healthy Baby wish
I made for myself and for Mom
is double strong
and will cancel
my room wish,
but
just in case
for this baby’s sake
I put my blue-sky wish
in a safe place.
FOLLOWING OBAACHAN’S RULES
Along with my school assignments
starting today
Obaachan makes me read from
a copy of
Customs and Manners
she pulled from Papa’s closet.
She stands over me
neglecting dirty dishes
in the kitchen.
My NASA pen
with the blue-sky wish
rolled
around its ink cartridge
sits beside my eraser,
three pencils, and a sharpener.
Obaachan reminds me
again today like every day
not to use ink for schoolwork.
OUR SPACE AND TIME
This baby hears
more Japanese here—
Obaachan’s fussing
about Jiichan
leaving tea rings on the table,
bruising tomatoes on shop errands,
forgetting something on her list
the TV blaring
recipes,
drama,
and news
all day long.
Before I was born,
Mom read English books to me.
That’s why my English is so good, she says.
Upstairs,
between meals,
Mom lies or sits on her futon
reading magazines and books
to this baby.
The fan’s propeller head
clicks back and forth
pushing water-thick air toward them.
Upstairs,
after school hours,
we speak English together
to this baby
or
we listen to music
or
she reads to us
while I sit
at her futon
fanning a magazine or
at the desk
rattling Papa’s dried lotus pod.
When the city chimes call children home
from the park or friends’ houses,
I start homework exercises before dinner.
On the phone I tell Papa, “I think it’s getting too hot for this baby.”
BEYOND THEIR CONTROL
Papa has arranged
installation of
air-conditioning
in Great-Grandfather’s old room
for Mom
and
cable TV in the family room
for Jiichan.
Obaa
chan, standing over the servicemen,
mumbles, “We don’t need this.”
I agree we don’t need
more channels of TV.
STAYING COOL
Mom will endure
the heat without AC
as long as possible
she says
that she’d rather have
a big telephone bill than a big electricity bill
that she doesn’t like to
come in and out of a cool room, but I know
she really doesn’t want to
be downstairs.
When Mom’s friends call
Obaachan makes Jiichan pull the telephone and fan
from the TV room
into Great-Grandfather’s room
after Mom comes downstairs
so she doesn’t trip over the cords.
(No danger of her falling down the stairs—
if she takes a deep breath, she’ll get stuck in the stairwell.)
Mom sits on a cushion
calm as Buddha
telling her friends
she can endure non-stop TV
no Internet access
no sweets
anything
for this baby.
HOT SEAT
Meanwhile,
there is no fan for us.
I fold a piece of newspaper into one.
Jiichan opens the closet,
finds a collection of
big, stiff paper fans,
advertisements from shops.
He gives me a choice.
I choose one and swat the air
SWOOSH.
It’s not easy to hold a pencil
and a fan at the same time
so Jiichan fans me
while I work math problems.
Shaped like a dish
of blue shaved ice
the fan looks cool.
But it’s not.
WHITE PAPER, “THE DEFENSE OF JAPAN 2001”
I am trying to concentrate on
a list of kanji
filling in
box after box
stroke by stroke
page after page, but
Jiichan turns up the TV volume.
He does not miss the news
ever since North Korea shot missiles into Tokyo Bay
a few years ago.
Today,
lots of discussion
criticism
and protests
from Korea and China especially
about recent Japanese textbooks.
They say Japan should write more about
and apologize more for
World War II.
I have multitudes to learn.
When Papa calls
I tell him,
“Mom needs earplugs.”
JULY 12, 2001
HOT WATER
Bath time comes early.
Mom has always been first in line at Obaachan’s.
Papa told them Americans don’t soak in the same water
but, at home, we fill the bathtub only once too,
and I am first in line.
Obaachan insists Mom go first. Then me.
Especially because of this baby.
Obaachan gets her way.
Mom comes out peach pink
complaining
the water is too warm again.
I’ve heard Obaachan fussing
at Jiichan
saying a cool bath will shock the baby.
Obaachan gets her way.
Mom tells Papa
Obaachan is trying to kill us.
Papa tells Mom to cool off
to stay calm
to choose her battles
reminding her
he will be here on Sunday.
I take the phone to Obaachan.
“You shouldn’t come,” she tells Papa. “Save energy.”
Obaachan gets her way
until Papa shows up the next day
on a thunderous Friday the thirteenth.
AT GREAT EXPENSE
After much money
many hours
and much energy
Papa arrives
bringing Mom a portable music player with headphones,
telling her to wear them especially at meals, and
convincing her to move downstairs into AC
at least on humidity mode.
He moves our futons, books, and clothes downstairs
instructs her and everyone on how to use the AC
reminds her and Obaachan both (separately)
to stay cool (calm)
—at all costs—
for this baby.
PURSE STRINGS
Obaachan holds the money in the household.
She plans
money for daily expenses,
payment for bills,
and an allowance for Jiichan.
The rest is saved.
Mom says Obaachan is sitting
on a mountain of money
saved from
scrimping on Jiichan’s salary
living rent-free with Great-Grandfather
inheriting everything as his only child.
Jiichan’s retirement pension tops the pile each month.
A bell hangs from the zipper pull of Obaachan’s money purse;
the deeper she digs, the more it jingles
its warning:
Too much. Too much. Too much.
Mom and Papa share money matters;
Mom works outside the house like Nana.
Here in this house, we are guests.
Obaachan won’t take money.
Our hands are tied.
We are marionettes dangling from Obaachan’s tight fists.
Papa is trying to loosen her grip
on everything.
He has a hard time leaving money
with Obaachan for expenses;
she argues with him.
He has a hard time leaving Mom and me;
we cling to him.
He heads back, tired,
uncomplaining
in rain and thunder for work on Saturday.
LOTUS WATER
Rainy Saturday morning of cartoons
Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother smile at me
(without showing teeth)
from faded photos
on the family altar next to the TV.
They have pleasant smiles every day
while I do my schoolwork
while we eat
while we watch TV.
Today,
I ask Jiichan if I ever met them.
Great-Grandmother, no,
but he tells me a story of
a four-year-old me
making Great-Grandfather smile by
dipping his cane
down to the muddy bottom
of a blue
wide-mouthed
potbellied jar
of rising lotuses,
making prints
of the wet cane tip
on the stone path,
watching them evaporate,
then searching for them.
The cane is gone
cremated with him
and his favorite hat
and wool winter coat.
The lotus was burned in the garden when it died.
Shards of its jar are
at the bottom of potted plants.
Jiichan says we use Great-Grandmother’s dishes every day.
LEFT BEHIND
Great-Grandfather’s calligraphy inkwell is mine.
Made of stone,
it couldn’t go with him.
I keep it in Papa’s desk.
Bonsai trees, metal garden tools,
et cetera,
were left behind in the garden.
Jiichan waters, clips, and
sifts through Great-Grandfather’s
et cetera
left unt
ouched for years
until now.
Clearing out things too early?
What would neighbors think?
Obaachan says
considering the right way to act
is a sign of respect.
Today she mentions again
the old sink rusting near the garden wall.
Non-burnable
and too big for trash day,
it will have to be
hauled away.
She doesn’t want to spend the money.
“We’re paying for war mentality,” Obaachan says.
“Metal was saved
in World War II
to make weapons,” Jiichan explains.
EAT WELL WHEN YOU CAN
Obaachan is generous with food.
Cooking is her affection,
passing rice bowls from her hand to ours.
Eat to keep up strength.
She insists I need more than a bowl of cereal at breakfast.
This could be the last meal for a while.
She lived through the bombing of Tokyo in World War II.
Don’t leave one grain of rice in your bowl!
She cooks a lot in the morning.
Whatever is left from breakfast
she covers with paper.
That is lunch.
Whatever is left at lunch is part of dinner.
Mom is eating everything
Obaachan cooks at breakfast.
Obaachan is a little pleased, I know,
but today at lunch
before Mom sits down
before she puts headphones on
before she picks chopsticks up
Obaachan instructs her,
“Have small, grow big,”
which means have a small baby to fatten up
which means Mom is eating too much
which means Obaachan is not following
Papa’s—at all costs—rule
of keeping Mom calm.
Mom doesn’t need more suggestions.
I think she is finishing everything
to avoid
food set out
all day in the heat.
And because she vomits a lot.
I notice Jiichan isn’t eating much.
TOO BUSY
Shuttered up in this house
at night
I hear it creak.
I hear Jiichan up late
at night
he does not sleep.
By five thirty a.m.,
except when it is raining,
he’s up to sweep
the stone path and the garden.
Sweeping dirt.
Walking to the shops with Obaachan,
I once pointed out a house with a patch of grass
just to show her.
“More work, more water,” she said.
Somewhere Among Page 3
