sometimes i feel like you
heart pounding with excitement and joy
of seeing such hope and possibilities
in the plain paper and junk.
your handmade games made the lessons fun
for you knew what life was all about
the playfulness in children’s wonder
to be immersed in the present moment.
i’d draw and craft to my heart’s desire
eat slowly without a care for the recess time
and read like I didn’t exist, not noticing my name being called.
yet you never once discouraged me
from being me, on my own pace
and i can’t thank you enough
for letting me be a child, for the environment you’ve raised me in.
—
Sachiko obaachan, remember that time in the upstairs study
where i taught you how to fold a rose in origami?
you and i would fold tens of them in one sitting
despite you not being much of a crafter.
you always tried everything without worry
and came out of it inspired and enthralled.
it’s your openness, your play
that brought out a little girl in you that day.
sometimes i feel like you
a compass guided by excitement and wonder,
seeking new horizons with an open heart.
at 70, you took college classes
praising the kindness of young students
who gladly offered their help.
you say the younger generation is so kind
but it’s your own kindness—radiant and boundless—
that draws people near
like travelers gathering around a fire.
at 80, you started swimming lessons
undaunted by the years you couldn’t float.
your persistence carved new worlds beneath the surface,
revealing views you hadn’t yet imagined.
you tell everyone I am your life teacher,
sharing the story of the time i helped you realize your bias.
but truly, you are the teacher of my life
the way your curiosity never rests,
a living testament to seeing the world
as vast, intricate, and endlessly unfolding.
your open mind and eagerness to understand
have made you a friend, a community leader.
everyone knows you’ll come with open arms,
ready to cheer and listen to them cry.
—
sometimes i feel like you
red nose and teary eyes
standing for our sense of right
when dad has denied us of our fight.
for all the times you were belittled as emotional
i will defend you, don’t forget
emotion is power
only the sincere can beget.
i see in you your mom,
who turned any supermarket flyers into a box
and taught us how to fold candy wrappers into a square.
we would then put those wrappers in the box
and it became a little origami trash bin that we’d have on the table
keeping the living room neat, reducing waste.
Takae obaachan, i miss your home
sitting on the floor cushion, rolling tangerines on the low dining table
the small boxy tv that has endured since the 2000s
salted salmon and pickled cucumbers for breakfast at noon.
confession, i would actually wake up earlier
and just stay still in the futon gazing at the row of pictures framed on the wall
yes, it’s the pictures of you in kimono
in all kinds of patterns and poses.
you appeared the same age as how i viewed you
but it was a side of you i’d never seen.
what are you like when you dance?
do you extend your focus to the tip of the finger
curved upward like how Sachiko obaachan admires the arch of my hand?
oh, how elegant you must have been
delicate fingers tracing invisible lines in the air
fluttering leaves and flowing water
frisode swaying, inflicting waves of emotions.
did your daughter watch you dance
and break into a dance of her own, inspired by your expression?
possessed by the music, i too would dance on the low table
for hours at end, transforming the sounds into a movement
your daughter would laugh tenderly at the sight of her daughter
dancing like it’s the most natural thing to do.
—
sometimes i feel like you
dancing like no one’s watching
flirting like I don't exist.
i was embarrassed and confused
to see you be a woman, not a mom
but now i recognize you in me
the instinct to be free.
you once accidentally called yourself Rie
while talking to Takae obaachan.
hearing you refer to yourself by your name
reminded me that you are her daughter, forever a child to my grandma.
i might have grown used to calling myself watashi
but when i’m home, i say Rino
you passed me down a part of your name
just as your mom has done for you.
