WATERING
At commercial breaks
Jiichan moves potted plants,
following a patch of sun
across the garden.
Then at sunset
I watch him
water them
with a tin cup
tied to the end of a bamboo pole,
dipping it
again and again and again
into a pail of water
thump thump
kotsun kotsun
tin against plastic
dribbling it
so the soil doesn’t wash away from the roots.
He climbs
to water the bonsai
bump bump slosh slosh
gotsun gotsun bicha bicha
the pail against the metal ladder.
In America, Grandpa Bob has a hose.
He stands in one place
and sprays
or puts a sprinkler at the end of it
and goes inside to watch TV.
I took a picture of the sprinkler once and showed it to Jiichan.
He said, “American ingenuity.”
“I will bring you a hose someday as a souvenir.
To finish watering faster.”
Obaachan said, “The water bill will be big.”
MOM SAVES OBAACHAN MONEY
Mom has always complained about
Jiichan’s after-dinner cigarette.
Papa told him doctors say,
“Don’t smoke around a pregnant woman.”
All smells bother Mom now. Even good ones.
Like Jiichan’s hair gel.
Today she stops eating her lunch and gags
when Jiichan stirs up his natto.
Fermented soybeans are stinky!
So,
Jiichan cannot smoke.
Jiichan cannot wear his hair gel.
Jiichan cannot eat natto.
I know Obaachan doesn’t like food limitations
but is happy
about the cigarette warning.
She wants Jiichan to stop smoking.
“Our pension is going up in smoke,” she says.
Poor Jiichan.
He has to quit smoking, and
quit eating his favorite food,
and he has messy hair.
NEIGHBORHOOD EYES
Smells know no boundaries.
On this sunny Tuesday
the smell of curry rice, my favorite,
drifts into the garden
midafternoon
from Mrs. Yamada’s.
I haven’t had curry rice all summer.
Outside the gate,
I linger
near her kitchen window
listening to
ton ton ton
potato, carrot, onion, green pepper, chicken
under the knife on the cutting board
and breathing in
each spicy snap, snap, snap
of packaged broth cubes.
Obaachan, in her kitchen apron,
standing in the entry hall,
tells me when I return,
“Eyes and ears everywhere.”
I know the neighborhood
watches manners
and looks out for kids,
but she wants me to know
she saw me lingering.
She is watching me
outside the house too.
Upstairs, at Papa’s window,
I enjoy whiffs of
Mrs. Yamada’s bubbling curry.
Mom vomits into one of the plastic bags
she tucks at the edge of her futon.
NEIGHBORHOOD EARS
Here, houses huddle
shoulder to shoulder
in groups of five.
Windows peer at one another,
wide open except in winter.
Thin walls, no insulation
let cold in.
Noise comes in and out.
A phone ringing? Could be anyone’s.
You can keep score
on sports games without watching.
Tonight Mr. Ito is singing along
to enka (not my favorite.)
He is pretty good, though.
You’re not supposed to listen
to other people’s private matters
to other people talking
to other people watching
but it’s hard not to
hear
Mr. Ishii scraping his tongue at six thirty a.m.
Mr. Yamada anytime after six forty-five but before seven.
Jiichan, the first, at five.
Tongue scraping,
throat gargling,
pan shuffling
start the day.
Gargling happens anytime someone returns home:
mothers from errands
children from school and play
salarymen from work late at night.
Hiro Ishii returns after high school cram school
around six p.m.,
our dinnertime.
Mom vomits anytime all day long.
I heard Obaachan apologize to Mrs. Ishii.
SOUND OF SUMMER
At noon,
voices
try to coax me out into the garden
to look for them.
This cycle of cicadas has waited
seventeen years
to crawl up from deep
underground
to shed their outer shells
to sing.
I have enjoyed
cycles of cicada chorus
and cicada hunts
with friends at home.
It’s not fair
this sound of summer
starts before summer break.
I stop to listen
to summer
between exercises.
NOTHING WILL CHANGE
Daily summer assignments
extra from Obaachan
and
no one
to play with
no one
to meet
no one
to make friends with
I am
too far away
from the park
from the river
from the shops
stuck at Obaachan’s
until school starts September first.
A VISITOR FOR ME
At four p.m.,
the gate rattles;
its rusted red metal bell dings.
High heels click across the stone path.
A teacher from the neighborhood school
presents herself
dressed in a navy blue suit
she impresses Obaachan
even more
for slipping white cotton socks
over her stockings
before sliding into guest slippers.
Obaachan serves glasses of mugicha.
The teacher nods toward the glass of cold barley tea
and says, “Thank you.”
TV is silent.
Jiichan and Mom too.
We listen to explanations
point by point of
worksheets for practicing skills
schedules for doing summer assignments
schedules for taking supplies the first week
of the fall term in September.
This school and my school
are on the same page.
But
this teacher compliments my Japanese
like I have not spent almost five years in Japanese school
like I have not made good grades in Japanese school
like I am not Japanese.
I do not want to go to her school.
I tell Papa on the phone.
He tells me “ganbatte.”
I will have to endure
until the semester finishes in December.
I tell him
I will make an effort
to cooperate
to endure with strength and patience
like he told me.
SEA DAY
A national holiday
a break from schoolwork
cicadas are in full song
high in the treetops.
I watch Jiichan digging
through the shed
for Papa’s old net.
He stops
takes off his hat, and
wipes his head.
He looks tired.
“I am too old for cicada catching,” I tell him.
We take a break for
cicada listening
on the stoop outside the TV room
until mosquitoes chase us inside.
Jiichan offers to walk down to the river.
“I am too tired,” I tell him.
He smiles
gratitude.
JULY 20, 2001
CALL OF THE SEA
Papa cannot afford to come to Obaachan’s.
He calls to tell me to look
in the bottom desk drawer.
It’s like digging through
a treasure chest of his past.
What am I looking for?
My hand knows before I do
something feels different
from all the metal and plastic—
a small chipped shell
I hold
to my ear
hold my breath
and hear
the sea.
I rush downstairs
to hold it to Mom’s belly
for this baby to hear
then to Mom’s ear.
I let Jiichan hear.
(Obaachan is too busy with dinner.)
Thank you, Papa,
for this Sea Day holiday.
JULY 20, 2001
LOW AND HIGH
Eyes lowered,
not watching the TV,
Jiichan and Obaachan
chew in small circles
and swallow
grilled fish, rice, and summer tomatoes,
listening to
an update of the Ehime Maru,
its mast will be dynamited
girded
and lifted
from the sea.
I look across the table at Mom
her back to the TV screen;
the beat of her favorite Train tune
bangs in her headphones,
blasting a smile on her face.
She pinches
the fish on her plate
folds back
its scales
and lifts the spine
from its flesh.
Using chopsticks was the first table manners she learned here.
Patting her hand and pointing
to the news coverage of
the anniversary of Apollo 11,
America’s moonwalk,
I bring her back to Earth.
Mom smiles at me.
She and Grandpa Bob and Nana share this memory.
Jiichan and Obaachan and Papa watched here at this table.
Now Mom and Jiichan and Obaachan and I share this,
saying, “Wow,”
with each detail,
each image.
JULY 21, 2001
LETTING OUT
Bringing in the laundry
will be my summer
helping-at-home
homework.
Starting before it counts,
I lean outside Papa’s window
snapping
socks
underwear
pajamas
towels
rags
from hangers,
watching
students pass by
toting home
each day
a different bag
paint sets
sewing kits
calligraphy sets
gym clothes
desk supply boxes.
I know it’s the last day of school
when I see the bags of
indoor shoes
and padded emergency hoods
we keep on the backs of our school chairs
for fire and earthquake drills.
I try not to tell Mom how much
I do not want to go to school here.
BLUE STARBURSTS
Mothers haul home
from school
potted morning glories
in their bicycle baskets.
Part of first graders’
summer homework is to:
keep their morning glory alive
watch it grow
take notes
collect seeds
make a paper gift box
to present to new first graders
when the new school year starts next April.
Morning glory care builds a connection between students
for the future.
Next year in sixth grade
we will grow pots of rice
at my old school
and pass along the seeds to the fifth graders.
I am not a part of this neighborhood.
WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS
I am not going to think about
September
when I will start school
here
in a class
where everyone has been together
since the first day of school in April
where everyone has a group of friends
since the first day of first grade
where everyone has a place in the neighborhood
since they were born.
I will be the outsider.
But I’m not going
to think about that now.
I’ve already written but not sent
summer greeting cards
(from Papa’s leftovers)
to my friends
in my old neighborhood
telling them to watch for me
with my papa this year
at the summer festival.
This will be my free time for fun.
I’m going to think about that.
THOUGHTS OF FUN
Wearing yukata
going back with Papa
to enjoy
eating octopus legs on sticks, cotton candy in bags
snagging water balloons, plastic prizes
scooping goldfish, super balls
watching fireworks, looking for friends
firing rockets, sparking sparklers
these things I am thinking, asking
but
Obaachan reminds me
how hard the trip is for Papa
tells me not to ask to go
tells me Papa needs to save energy
tells me there will be fireworks here in August.
Obaachan gets her way.
Jiichan mails my corrected,
ink-smudged greeting cards.
I’m too embarrassed
to send them
too embarrassed
to hand them
to the postwoman.
I can watch my hometown fireworks on TV.
It won’t be the same.
Obaachan is a fun killer.
FREE TIME?
Mom suggests things to do
to keep me busy.
How about reading English aloud?
She brought plenty of storybooks.
“That’s boring,” I tell her. (Actually, it’s too hard.)
Needlepoint?
She brought her bag of work.
“That’s complicated.” (Actually, it’s too hot.)
Collage?
She brought scissors.
I have my school scissors and glue bottle.
She selects the magazines
and we begin.
THE PROJECT
I am making a card for American Grandparents Day,
to get it in the mail early
way before September ninth.
Nana likes flower gardening.
Grandpa Bob likes space travel.
Both like rainbow viewing.
I decide to tear not cut
small pieces of paper.
Mom says,
“Oh, like chigiri-e.”
I say, “Yes, East meets West,”
something she says when she cooks.
Dabbing the pieces with glue
I fill in my drawings of
flowers falling
from the space shuttle flying
over a rainbow map of America,
something for both Nana and Grandpa Bob.
I tell Mom she can have all the magazine flower photos.
I fill in blank spaces
with my old set of Pocket Monsters crayons
I keep in Papa’s desk.
Mom cuts and spells out words
nouns:
peace
future
hope
adjectives:
quiet
strong
harmonious
verbs:
wait . . .
is she making this an English lesson?
ADDING TO THE LIST
Mom cuts out pictures
filling in a black marker circle
on newspaper
calling it a mandala
saying, “East meets West.”
We laugh.
I find the word “happy,”
cut it out, and give it to her.
She smiles.
I write “Happy Days” in NASA pen ink
at the top of my card.
Japan has Respect for the Aged Day
on September fifteenth this year.
Obaachan says that is not the same thing
as Grandparents Day.
It is a different day.
KILLING FUN
Obaachan makes a schedule of my summer days.
She doesn’t give me a break.
A DAY OUT
Jiichan says I need
to get out of the house
to stand in line
to see Miyazaki’s newest movie.
TV says it is already his biggest hit.
Obaachan suggests
going on Tuesday,
seniors’ free admission day
at the cinema two stations away.
IN THE ENTRY HALL ON TUESDAY
Doors of the shoe cabinet slide
back and forth;
Jiichan is selecting his shoes.
Obaachan mumbles
low, deep.
Mumble, slide. Mumble, slide. Mumble, slide.
Jiichan stands in silence.
Obaachan is having a conversation
with the shoe cabinet.
Somewhere Among Page 4
