by Lee Welles
Ojisan and Miho ate a very late lunch in silence. She kept looking into the room with the lonely table set for four dead people. She wondered what else would happen during O-bon. Ojisan sighed and looked very weary.
“Now we must go to temple, to grave. You have nice clothes?”
Miho wished he had told her this before she left Nagoya. “No. Just shorts ‘n stuff.” She stared at the table, wondering if this would make her uncle mad and make him say, “So American.” But he just shook his head and rose from the table.
The first afternoon of O-bon was very hard for Miho. Goza was filled with families. Grandparents and grandkids, parents and aunts and uncles gathered together and filled Goza’s temple yard.
Miho felt tall and underdressed; most of the people, even Ojisan, were dressed in yukata, summer kimonos. She felt tall and stupid; she didn’t understand a word of the long ceremony at the temple. She felt tall and family-less; it was just her and her Oji, who didn’t hold her hand or talk to her to tell her what was going on.
He didn’t talk while they weeded around the family grave either. Miho could, however, hear the families around her. The word “gaijin” reached her ears more than once. When she did look up, people would look at her, see her gaijin-green eyes and smile politely…too politely. Little kids stared and stared. Miho felt like an alien—a tall alien.
The only good part was after Ojisan went to the temple and came back with a paper lantern, already lit. For the first time, he really looked at Miho, looked right into her eyes.
“I’m sorry you lost your parents,” he said in Japanese. “I know you are sad and I don’t help too much. Let’s try to be happy during O-bon. Happy we are all together now.”
They walked home in silence, their lantern one bobbing light among many blinking down the roadways. As each family reached their home, they hung the lantern outside the gate. Ojisan did the same.
For a while, Miho and Ojisan sat on the veranda, facing the sea and watching the other families bringing home their lights, their dead. Miho was sure they were both lost in thought about those they loved. Miho was also keeping her eyes wide open for the strange creature that had come and turned her life upside down.
13
Enso
The second day of O-bon, Ojisan again commanded, “Come” and headed out the door, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket as he did.
Miho followed him and wondered if the strange things that had happened—the otter, the wave, the whale—could have anything to do with O-bon. She wondered if the strange things would stop after the festival. For the first time, she realized Ojisan would most likely go back to Nagoya after the three days. After all, Miho thought, ‘He businessman.’
The center of Goza was filled to the brim with people dancing, drumming and singing. Miho had no idea what was going on and Ojisan seemed to have forgotten all about her. It was obvious that many of the people knew him. Calls of “Kazuki-san!” came floating across the crowd and she would see Ojisan push his way through the crowd to meet and talk and laugh with the originator of the calls. More than once, Miho saw him tip a bottle to his lips.
This continued all day. Miho began to get hungry and tired and a bit bored. She decided to head down to the beach. She glanced around to see where Ojisan was—she should ask permission, after all. He was far across the square with his arm slung over another man’s shoulder, laughing in a big, full-bodied way that reminded Miho of her mother. Miho stuck out her tongue in his direction and then headed toward the beach.
As she walked, she saw a wizened little figure on the beach, face to the ocean and something in hand. It was the old man from the store! He seemed to be holding still, yet moving, flowing. Miho wondered if it was a trick of the sun and the waves that made him look like that.
She left her shoes on the crest of the dune and walked to the water’s edge. Miho sort of hoped the old man would see her and come over to tell her more about what it meant to be Ama.
The waves were small, as she suspected they usually were in Goza. At least until you get an otter mad at you! Miho thought, before she could stop herself. It was simpler to think that the events of the past evening were nothing more than a dream or a fancy of her half American, half Japanese, fully tired mind.
She stood, enjoying the feeling of the ocean sucking the sand from under her feet and watching the wee little sandpipers run back and forth to the surf’s edge. They picked away at the small crustaceans that each retreating wave revealed. Miho envied their simple life. There was no such thing as being half a sandpiper.
She looked down the beach to the old man. He held what looked like a tall paintbrush. He had both his spotted, gnarled hands wrapped around the handle and used his whole body to pull the brush this way or that. He occasionally took an easy, graceful step into or out of his work. He looked like he was dancing.
Miho walked closer, wondering what he was painting and wondering if she should say something to announce her presence. But she didn’t have to. Without looking up from his work, the old man said, “Konnichiwa.”
Miho stopped in her tracks. How did he know she was there? She returned his greeting and added a deep and long-held bow. She sensed that this man both deserved and demanded respect.
He finished and stepped back. But he didn’t take much time to admire his work; he simply turned toward Miho and said a quick but long sentence in Japanese. Miho had to shake her head and say, “Wakarimasen.” (I don’t understand.)
“Hmmmmm.” The old man stroked his chin and regarded her, eyes twinkling from within his deeply creased face. “No spoke Engrish for…” He drew his hands out wide, “long time.” He smiled, pleased with his effort, and the smile seemed to warm the air around them. Miho smiled back, happy to have someone besides her uncle to talk to.
“Watashi wa namae, Miho, desu.” Miho said, introducing herself in Japanese.
“My name, Taro Tomikoro.”
“What is this?” Miho asked, indicating the shapes he had brushed into the sand.
“Sho-do. It mean, Way of Brush.”
Sho-do, Miho liked the sound of that word. “What does it say?” she asked, grateful that this adult didn’t seem to mind questions.
He laughed, a surprisingly deep, rich laugh for a frail, little man. “Can tell kanji meaning, but Sho-do say more about Taro Tomikoro than kanji I make.”
Miho didn’t understand what he meant and thought this was because his English was very choppy. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the large brush. Making kanji in the sand was something she had done before, but only with a stick, never with a giant paintbrush.
“Can I try?” Miho asked, hoping it wasn’t a rude, gaijin request.
“No try,” the tiny, weathered man said. Miho sighed and looked at her feet.
“No try,” he repeated. Miho looked up and he was holding the brush out to her. “Must do, no try. I show.”
Miho took the brush from Mr. Tomikoro. The old man took his leathery hands and moved Miho’s hands around until she had the brush gripped in a way that suited him. He stepped back and then raised his hands to shoulder level, indicating that she should do the same.
Miho felt a little silly; she looked like she was going to plunge the point of the brush deep into the sand. She waited for him to tell her what kanji to make.
“Stand, like this.” He planted his feet shoulder width apart and softened his knees a bit. He made a fist in front of his belly. Miho waited. “Breathe,” he said.
I am breathing! Miho thought, but exaggerated her breath a bit so Mr. Tomikoro could see it. Her shoulders began to heat up as she held her arms out.
When is he going to tell me what to do? Maybe I am just supposed to start. I can draw the kanji for “ocean;” should I start with that? Why isn’t he talking? This brush is heavier than it looks! What does he want me to do next?
Miho’s mind continued to chatter this way and she occasionally looked to her right to see Mr. Tomikoro standing there, still as a statue, watc
hing her.
This is silly! What am I learning? Should I just draw something?
She started to lower the brush, her shoulder muscles instantly letting out a little cheer of relief.
“BREATHE!” he barked.
Miho’s arms popped back up.
Why do Japanese men like to yell so much? My dad hardly ever yelled, only when I did something really bad. Boy, I hope he doesn’t smoke like Ojisan. He doesn’t smell bad like Ojisan. Man! My shoulders are killing me! What IS this? Is he making a joke on me ‘cause I’m “gaijin?”
Miho tried lowering her arms just a smidgen, to bring some ease to her shoulders, arms and hands.
“BREATHE!”
Miho’s arms popped back up.
Breathe! Breathe! Miho’s thoughts felt like they were banging up against the sides of her head. She knew Mr. Tomikoro was waiting for something before he would show her more. Okay, breathe, Miho. Just breathe. How do I breathe? I can feel the air on my nostrils and the sea in the back of my throat. Miho stopped thinking about the brush and focused more on her breath. My belly rises every time I inhale. Okay belly, inhale. Okay ribs, squeeze and push that air out. Belly in, ribs out. In. Out. In. Out.
Miho stopped wondering about the Sho-do lesson. The complaints from her shoulders seemed further away. In. Out. In. Out. She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, that knife edge where sea and sky had their conversations. In. Out.
Mr. Tomikoro spoke in a voice she could barely hear above the murmuring of the sea caressing the beach, “Make circle.”
Circle? What does that mean? How big? How fast? Do I still hold the brush like this?
Miho lowered the tip of the brush into the sand and did her best to make a circle. The brush seemed to get pushed and bumped by the sand. Maybe I should go faster! Slower? Oh, no! It looks like an oval! It’s flat! Miho stopped and kept her eyes down on the flat, wobbly circle. She knew, without asking, that it wasn’t good…Sho-do.
When she looked up, Mr. Tomikoro’s face was blank, but there was a hint of a smile glinting out of his deeply creased eyes. Like wave wishes, she thought.
He reached out and took the brush. He didn’t take a noticeable breath or do anything special, but the very air around him seemed to still.Without looking directly at the sand, he swiftly drew a circle. It was smooth and complete and somehow had as much energy in the blankness within, as the darker line that defined it.
“Enso,” he said, and swept his hand in the shape of a circle.
He flapped his hand toward Miho. “Breathe… Enso…Breathe…Enso. You do, no try. Hai?”
He turned and knelt down to retrieve his walking stick lying in the sand beside him. Miho stared at him, waiting for something more like a real lesson. He flapped his hand at her in a way that told her to get going on this ‘Enso.’ Then he turned and headed back toward the dune. She could hear him saying in an almost sing-song voice, “Breathe…Enso…Breathe…Enso.”
Miho watched his retreating back and then began to attempt another Enso. She looked at her second attempt and thought, “Ugh!” Before she could look at it any longer and figure out what she did wrong, a big wave came up and swept the kanji away.
Miho discovered that each time she drew Enso, a wave came to erase it. If the tide had been rising, Miho would have understood. But the tide was going out, the ocean retreating. Still, one long finger of water continued to crawl up the beach…just to scrub her Enso away.
14
Why Why Why
It was nearly dark by the time Miho pulled herself away from the enchantment of the sea and sand. She didn’t want to go back to the festival just to listen to songs she couldn’t sing. She was hungry! She trudged up the hill to Ojisan’s house and found a bag of wasabi-covered dried peas in the cabinet. She hardly noticed the hot fumes that filled her head (which really was the fun part of this snack), and kept staring at the four bowls. Where are they all now? Heaven? Do they talk to each other? Maybe they were here for O-bon. Did Mom and Dad see my terrible Sho-do, that sloppy Enso?
Miho was still nibbling and pondering when she smelled the acrid smoke of Ojisan’s cigarette. Ojisan came through the door a moment later. He had sweat stains on his shirt, a grin on his face, and a nearly empty bottle in his hand.
“Oh-ho, Miho!” he motioned to her with the hand holding the bottle. “Where you go?” He giggled. “An Engrish poerm! Oh-ho, Miho! Whah you go!” His mouth seemed to have trouble making the words.
He took a drink and then patted his shirt, looking for cigarettes. Miho could tell this was a motion he had done so many hundreds of times his hands did it even when he wasn’t sure what he wanted.
“It like, I have…” his smile faded and his eyes narrowed, “new sister.” He swayed a little. “But you, sister…worse, sister.”
He tottered over to the table and fell to a seated position with a thud. He began talking to the two bowls on his left.
“I do soooo good for Yoko. She have everything. I even find husband. But this one!”
He turned to address the two bowls on his right. “How I find husband for gaijin? This all you fault!” He looked up to regard Miho with his limp stare. “How I find husband for you? You don’t even talk good!”
Miho thought this was the stupidest thing anyone had ever said to her. Husband? She was ten years old! He should be worried about getting her to school! And besides, he talked worse than she did!
“Ojisan, why are you so mad at my mother?”
Ojisan staggered to his feet, narrowed his eyes and inhaled sharply. Miho realized her question and held her breath, waiting for the yelling to start.
But Ojisan didn’t yell. He closed his mouth and turned back to the empty bowls at the table. “See? See? She just like Yoko! Why! Why! Why! She going to do same thing! Make me work, work, work and then go away and be American! Bah!” He spat toward one of the bowls. “You say you like all her ‘why, why, why.’ Stupid American.”
Ojisan lowered himself to the floor and tipped the bottle to his lips. He seemed to have forgotten all about Miho.
Miho walked as quietly as possible over to the table and folded herself down to the floor. “Ojisan, did you take care of my mother?”
“Hai.” He shook his head sadly. “I leave school. For while, I stay in Goza with Yoko. But I need go to Nagoya for more money job. I work hard. I thought since parents gone, my beautiful sister need something wonderful. I pay for her school.”
Ojisan tipped the bottle again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yoko do so well in school she want more school, in America, in California. I tell her no, time to get husband, get married. I find such good husband for Yoko.”
“My dad?” Even as the question popped out of Miho, she knew how wrong she was and wished she could stuff the question back into her mouth.
But Ojisan seemed too tired to yell. He patted his shirt pocket for his cigarette pack and pulled it out. He peered into the package and, finding it empty, crushed it up in his fist.
“Yoko shame me. She say no to my friend and go to California. She tell me she don’t need me. I work so hard for so many years and she go anyway. Now!” Ojisan seemed to snap to attention for a moment. “Now, look what happen! She run away from Goza, from Ama, from place she should be and look what happen anyway!”
He looked at Miho, but his eyes seemed blurry and he couldn’t hold her gaze. “Now I have new Yoko. I have, ‘why, why, why’ here again. But, Tomikoro-Sensei say you Ama—maybe you stay. Maybe you stay.”
Ojisan dropped his chin to his chest. Miho waited for him to say more. She felt like a heavy jacket had been draped over her shoulders. Ojisan’s story made her think about her mother, but in a different way than just being her mother. Miho had more questions and waited for Ojisan to look up, but he didn’t.
His chin stayed on his chest and his breathing sounded deep. Miho wondered if she should get him up and tell him to go to bed. She decided he was quieter this way, so she got up and went to her room.
Listen
Once again, sleep was slow to come. The only sounds she heard were the night birds chattering to themselves in the treetops and the waves making their endless landings on the shore of Goza. Miho waited for sleep.
She focused her attention on the rhythmic whoosh and hiss of the waves below. The sounds of the sea had been her lullaby most of her life, and it always helped her go to sleep. Miho waited for the waves to take her off into a restful place where she didn’t have to wonder about her mother and her grandmother and why the sea seemed to want the women in her family.
Miho waited, but sleep didn’t come. The wonderful wave sounds that normally lulled her to sleep now seemed to be calling her. The whoosh and hiss started to sound like “MeeeeeeHoooooooo.” She finally got up and left her room.
Ojisan was sprawled across the floor cushions, the empty pack of cigarettes still crushed in one hand and the other hand across his eyes. His jaw hung open and he was snoring gently. Miho didn’t think he would wake, but tiptoed across the tatami-covered floor anyway.
Miho followed the call of the sea down to the sandy dunes. The tide was high and the foam of the waves crept far up the beach. Miho sat on top of one of the dunes, listening to the wind hiss through the sea grass and listening even harder for the sound of whales breathing.
“You do not have to wait for the whales to wander by, you know.”
Miho was so startled by the voice that she, once again, fell back and took a tumble down the backside of the dune! She scrambled to her feet, shaking sand from her hair and shaking it out of her shorts. Before she looked up, she said, “Gaia?”
“Ahhhh! She knows my name! This little one must be listening!”
Miho finally lifted her eyes. On top of the dune was the dark outline of the otter. Well, I guess I’m not crazy, Miho thought.
