We ate sweets. We danced. We drummed.
I wore a beautiful kimono and carried a painted fan.
This year, I wonder: Where will we send our lanterns? There are no creeks to carry them away.
*
As it gets closer to the time to light lanterns, Mother and Father stay out late to help prepare for the celebration.
But one night, Father wakes me up and hands me a narrow package wrapped in bright, silky fabric. I think it must be pencils. I untie the knot and fold the fabric back. Father has made a fan for me.
I trace my fingers along the smooth spokes of the fan. A red cord hangs from the base of the spokes. When I open it, the paper changes from white to green to blue. Father has painted a boat and our island. The white wall of our house. My favorite rock.
It makes me happy and sad at the same time.
I kiss Father’s cheek.
He pats my arm.
“Go to sleep now,” Mother says.
I wrap Father’s fan in the bright fabric and put it under my bed.
In the morning, I show Grandfather my fan. He inspects it as if he has never seen it before.
“You know,” he says, “your father spent many hours making this for you.”
I know.
“You see,” he says, “your father thinks of the island just like you.”
I see.
“You understand,” he says, “your father loves you very much.”
I understand.
“We will make lanterns,” Grandfather says. “Lanterns and a drum.”
*
Grandfather and I take a long walk to Father’s work crew. There have been no newcomers for a week. This is good because there is no place to put newcomers anymore. Every barracks is filled. Since they have finished building barracks, Father and his crew have been working on building a barn and fences for cows, pens for hogs, and coops for chickens that the government is sending to us. Some of the animals have already arrived.
I see men working in the pasture. And two new dogs who are not Yujiin.
Grandfather sees them and squeezes my hand.
When we get near Father’s work site, he leaves his crew to meet us.
Father and Grandfather speak in low voices while I watch the crew build the barn’s roof. The cow barn has only three walls. The chicken coops have four walls. I think I like the three-wall barn better. The cows can come and go whenever they want. The chickens are stuck inside their coops until someone lets them out for the day.
Grandfather hands me a bundle of wood pieces to take back to our room. He carries his own bundle, along with two tools.
When we get home, Grandfather stacks the wood and lays the tools on the ground near the steps in front of our barracks.
“Wedge,” he says.
It is wide and flat on one end and narrows to a sharp line on the other.
“Knife,” he says.
It is as long as my forearm, with handles sticking straight up on both ends.
Grandfather sets a piece of wood on the ground and places the wedge on top. He taps the wedge with a hammer until the piece of wood splits into two pieces. When he has split all of the wood, Grandfather sits on a stair step. He holds a split piece of wood between his feet. With his hands around the handles of the knife, he slowly pulls the knife toward him, shaving off a strip of wood. He does this over and over until he has a stack of strips on the step next to him.
Grandfather cuts the strips into pieces about the same size as my pencils.
Grandfather dips his finger into a small pot and smears sticky glue onto some of the wood strips, joining them to make the frame of a box. Then he glues two more strips on the bottom of the box to make an X. He sets the frame aside and makes another.
“Bring paper,” Grandfather says.
From underneath my mattress, I get half of the stack of paper that Miss Rosalie gave me.
“Go ahead and paint,” Grandfather says. “With your paintings, the lanterns for our family will be the most beautiful lanterns.”
I pick up the chicken-feather paintbrush Grandfather has laid over the top of a bowl of black paint.
I want the first painting for the first lantern to be for Grandmother. I dip the paintbrush into the paint and carefully paint the roots of a tree. I am not used to painting with chicken-feather paintbrushes. But after a few strokes, my painting becomes easier.
Grandfather watches me. As soon as I paint the first upward stroke of the tree’s branches, he nods and goes back to his gluing.
Grandfather knows that a plum tree is for Grandmother. Like her plum trees on the island.
When I finish, I set the paper aside so the paint can dry.
I want my next lantern paper to be for Yujiin.
Grandfather watches me again. As soon as I paint the first round, dark eye, he stands up and walks away.
But I do not stop. I do not try to comfort him. This is something I know, something I have learned: it is not possible to comfort Grandfather about Yujiin. I know this because I know that I cannot be comforted about Yujiin. So I paint. I paint and I think.
I do not understand why, if my drawings are being found by other dogs, Yujiin cannot find one.
But maybe this lantern will shine so bright that Yujiin will see it and know that I miss him. And maybe he will come. Maybe.
So I paint a lantern for Grandmother and a lantern for Yujiin.
I paint more pictures for our ancestors.
I hear a clang calling us to lunch.
But I continue to paint.
And Grandfather glues.
He glues the painted papers onto the frames.
Together, we make lanterns.
*
I am hungry when the last lantern is painted and glued.
Grandfather and I walk to the mess hall. Mother is inside the kitchen. She and other mothers and grandmothers have been working longer than usual for the last three days to make special treats: trays of salty-sour rice balls, stacks of crunchy cookies, bowls of honey-covered nuts.
“Your daughter is hungry,” Grandfather says.
“Is my father hungry, too?” Mother asks.
“Perhaps,” Grandfather says.
“I will see what I can do,” Mother says. “Next time, my daughter should eat during mealtime.”
“She will,” Grandfather says. He winks at me. We sit at a table to wait for Mother.
Mother brings us a tray that is covered with a thin white cloth.
Grandfather carries the tray to our room. When he removes the cloth, my stomach makes a happy growl.
A steaming teapot, a bowl of rice, sliced cucumbers and melon, four of the crunchy cookies, and two salty-sour rice balls.
I lift the teapot and as I begin to pour into Grandfather’s cup, I almost drop it. Instead of just hot water, Mother has given us actual tea. I pour slowly, afraid to spill even one drop.
“Ahhh,” Grandfather says, lifting his cup to his mouth.
I hold my cup near my face, breathing in the leafy bark scent of the tea. I let the first sip of hot tea sit in my mouth for a second. I feel its bitter, dark taste on the back of my tongue. It is not green and sharp like the tea Mother used to keep on the island. But it is tea. And it is good. When I swallow, the tea begins to wash away the dust coating my throat. I sip again and again.
“This tea is a treat for the celebration,” Grandfather says while we eat. “Many of our neighbors worked together to save money to buy it.”
When we finish eating, I fill my cup again.
Grandfather raises his eyebrows.
I pick up my cup and walk to the door.
Grandfather understands.
“Wear your hat,” he says, putting it on my head.
I hold the cup out in front of me, safe between my two hands. By the time I reach Father’s work crew, the tea is no longer hot. Father does not see me, but another man notices me standing beneath Father’s ladder and shouts to him.
He climbs down the ladder
and puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me away from the work crew.
I offer the cup to Father.
He takes it and looks inside. He blinks many times before he takes a sip. When Father has finished his tea, he places the cup in my hands.
“Thank you,” he says. He pulls on my braid and then returns to work.
During the long walk to Father’s work crew, I did not think about the hot, bright sun. I did not think about the sweat dripping down my back. I did not think about my tired legs.
But now, walking back, I feel the hot, bright sun beating down on my head and arms. I feel new rivers of sweat dripping down my back. I am itchy where my dress sticks to my skin. And my legs are so tired that I can only lift one foot after the other by counting my steps home.
Grandfather waits for me in the slim line of shade in front of our barracks. He has a stack of wood pieces next to him. They are about the size of one of Miss Rosalie’s books. Grandfather rubs the edges of one piece of wood smooth, shaping his drum.
I sit on the step next to Grandfather, take off my hat, and wipe the sweat from my forehead. After I catch my breath, I go inside to pour another cup of tea.
Grandfather puts my hat back on my head as I walk down the steps.
On this walk, all I can think about is how sweaty I am, how hot the sun is, how tired my legs are. But I hold the cup of tea in front of my body, carefully hidden inside my hands.
The walk to Block 7 is not long. Since Father wouldn’t let him join his work crew, Ron found a job building things for the new classrooms. I find him making benches in the school yard.
Ron stops working as soon as he sees me. He looks at my sweaty face. He takes the cup from my hands and pulls me under a shady spot.
“Sit,” he says. Then he sips his tea.
“Hot tea is just what I need right now,” he says. “How did you know?”
I just knew.
“Father does not like me working,” he says.
He sips.
“But the extra money will be helpful,” he says.
He sips.
“I cannot sit around until school starts,” he says. “I will study at night.”
He sips.
“One day, we will leave this place,” he says.
He hands me his empty cup.
“Thank you, Sister,” he says. “You are a good listener.”
Ron’s smile makes my heart swell inside my chest. I run all the way home. Sitting on the step next to Grandfather, I remember that the sun is hot and my legs are tired.
Grandfather sends me inside to rest.
*
The first two nights of the celebration, the mess hall is crowded with our neighbors from Block 3. One table is covered with a red cloth. On top of the red cloth are bright flowers made from newspaper and folded fabrics. Lanterns are stacked on the floor, lining the walls. Vegetables are cut into pretty shapes: butterflies, flowers, and birds.
We eat the vegetables and rice balls and melons and cookies. When the sun goes down, we gather in the large open space next to Block 3. I can see around the camp that a few of the other blocks have dancing and drumming, too. Grandfather brings the drum he made. It is a square block with rounded edges. His drum clacks when he hits it with a wooden stick. Others bring drums, too. Some are homemade like Grandfather’s. Some have a metal side that sounds almost like a bell when it is hit. Some are large and round and covered with stretched leather. People dance and drum and laugh. I watch until Grandfather says it’s time to go home for bed.
But the third night, the final night when we light our lanterns, starts off more seriously.
Mother comes home from work early and takes me to the women’s showers.
Father and Grandfather and Ron go to the men’s showers.
Mother dresses me in a kimono of green silk embroidered with pink flowers that she had packed at the bottom of her suitcase. She dresses in her own kimono. It is cream silk embroidered with pink and brown flowers.
Mother combs my hair, fastening it at the back of my neck. Then she pulls her own hair back.
Father and Grandfather and Ron do not wear silk robes. They wear their best suits even though it is so hot.
Mother motions for me to sit on the floor beside Ron. She sits on the floor between Father and Grandfather.
We face our family altar. A framed photo of Grandmother is joined by carved fruit and paper flowers. A glass jar filled halfway with sand holds a candle, the flame shining against the jar’s glass.
I think of Grandmother. I never met the other ancestors, but Grandmother was quiet and strong. She made the softest salty-sour rice balls. She drew pictures for me in the sand—pictures of flowers decorated with rocks and shells, pictures of sea lions and boats, and my name. Grandmother’s hands smelled like cucumbers and herbs. Her smile was small and warm.
I wonder if Grandmother’s spirit knows we are in this prison-village and not on the island.
When it is time to stand up, I take a deep breath. The smell of cucumbers fills my nose.
*
We eat at the mess hall and then go outside to the open space for more dancing and drumming. Kimmi runs up to me and grabs my hands. “Dance with me,” she says.
She spins us in a circle, and we dance until she asks, “Do you want to get some cookies?”
We go to the mess hall, with its door wide open and tables covered with food. I pick up a rice ball, and Kimmi picks up three crunchy cookies.
A grandmother brings a fresh pot of tea from the kitchen, but I am too hot from dancing and running to drink tea. Kimmi and I drink water from our cups after we finish eating, and then we go back outside.
There is a group of girls giggling and dancing, and Kimmi pulls me toward them. But I do not want to join these girls. Sometimes, these girls look at me like I am strange. I see Grandfather setting our lanterns on the steps leading to our barracks, and I run to join him.
When the sky is completely black, Mother lights a short candle. She uses it to melt wax from the bottom of another candle, letting the wax drip onto the middle of the cross that covers the bottom of the lantern for Yujiin. Mother sticks the candle into the pool of hot wax and hands it to me. Next, she prepares Ron’s lantern and Father’s lantern and Grandfather’s lantern and, finally, her own. We take our lanterns to join the other families in the open space where candlelit lanterns are set here and there on the ground.
I raise my lantern high over my head. For many minutes, I watch Yujiin’s dark eyes look down on me. Then I place the lantern on the ground with everyone else’s and I think, Maybe Yujiin will see. From far away, maybe he will see the flickering lights. Maybe he will know I am thinking of him.
Then someone starts a steady drumbeat. It is deeper than the clack of the drum Grandfather made. A rush of wind makes the candlelight flicker and sputter.
My heart drops. The flame from Yujiin’s lantern is gone.
SEPTEMBER
As soon as I hear that Miss Rosalie has returned, I run to the school. It takes me a while to figure out which is her new classroom. But I peek in windows until I see a familiar stack of books on a table. Miss Rosalie is not there, but I go inside the building and slide a painting of lanterns spilling across the ground under her classroom door. I think she will like this painting.
Father joins us at dinner. When Mother sits and I have poured tea for everyone, we all look at Father. He pulls an envelope from his pocket.
“A letter from Keiko,” he says.
Mother reads the letter. She starts to speak, but then stops and hands the letter to Grandfather.
Grandfather waves his hand to Ron, and Mother gives the letter to Ron instead.
Ron scans the letter and looks up.
“Keiko writes that Professor Greene has held my place,” Ron says.
I am glad Ron does not keep secrets like Mother and Father.
“He can try to get a pass for me to attend college again,” Ron says.
Grandfather forms his
hands into a steeple.
“You must go,” Father says.
“Father,” Ron says. “I will think about this. For you, I will think about this. And I will write to ask Professor Greene to tell me more about the pass. But I cannot promise to go. It is not my wish to leave my family in this place.”
“You must!” Father says.
No one speaks for a few minutes. Then Father hits his palm against the table and stands. After another minute, he walks outside.
After Father leaves, we eat our dinner in silence. I am not hungry anymore, but it is easier to eat my food than to listen to Mother tell me why I must eat my food.
“What do you think, Mother?” Ron asks.
“I don’t know what is right,” Mother says. “The army, that was wrong. But college? That is not wrong. Only difficult.”
“Difficult for me as well,” Ron says. “To leave you in this place … I don’t think I can do it.”
“Children leave their parents, my son,” Mother says.
Ron lowers his voice, but I lean closer to hear.
“But what about Manami?” he asks. “It isn’t fair that she must stay here and I can go. I don’t think I can leave her either.”
Mother looks at me.
“We will discuss this later,” she says.
Ron turns toward me.
“You are a good listener, Little Sister, but sometimes you should not listen,” he says. Then he squeezes my hand.
“It is time to walk home,” Grandfather says.
That night, when I am in my bed, I remember that Ron did not mention Miss Rosalie’s return. I wonder if he knows. It’s hard for me to imagine that he doesn’t. In this prison-village, everyone knows everything.
*
I walk to Miss Rosalie’s classroom again the next day, this time with a newspaper flower. I saved it from the night of the lanterns. It is not colorful, but the petals curl under and swirl around each other. Miss Rosalie is outside, sweeping the steps.
“Oh, Manami!” she says when she sees me. “My darling girl!” She leans the broom against the building and hurries to meet me. “I’m teaching your class again. Isn’t that the best news?”
I nod and hold my paper flower out to her.
Miss Rosalie brings the flower to her nose.
Paper Wishes Page 6
