Shotou

I remember being a child and sitting on the floor. I wrote my letters on my little handy chalk board. Those days we would spend together with her reading from my books. It's such a strange thing growing up in a Japanese household. There is a certain order in everything you do. I don't mean sequences but a sense of what is proper. As a child you pick it up quickly without thinking. "Come hear." I would run with my little legs. "Sit now." I would sit down. I was loved my whole life but there was order. All those years my father was overseas fighting a war. The only thing I knew about him was letter time. "What do you want to tell your daddy?" I would talk about all the things we did that day.

It would seem to an outsider that it was a strange way to raise a child. Even though I have two younger brothers I don't recall them being with us. My moms attention was always on me. Fixing my hair or tucking in my shirt. My mom had to be mother and father to us back then.

As I grew older things did change. Even though I was the 2nd oldest son I was the one that was home the most. My older brother is four years older than I am and was always working. I was lucky to spend a lot of time with my mom. I loved coming home at dusk and sitting at the garden with my mom.

My mom would sometimes let me try traditional Japanese food that she thought I wouldn't like. I don't remember the names but it made me open minded when it comes to food.

And then a few years ago my mom got sick. My next youngest brother lived at home and helped take her to the hospital. At first it was rare but that wouldn't last. I moved home to find work after I finished school. I saw first hand the delirium and the terrible state she would get into. I picked her up from her bed and carried her to the car. She would grab the sofa or the doorway yelling I was trying to kill her. I saw her go from being an active senior who loved to garden to someone who would sit at the window and watch her garden wither. She became scared to leave the house for worry that something bad would happen.

My mom was a strong woman. She had left her country to come to a strange land where she barely spoke the language. She made the best of what she had and found ways to make a lot out of little. She found the strength to go against convention and live her last years the way she wanted to. Her health got better and she seemed to even look more youthful. Her final days were lived like any other. She was in so much pain though. The doctors had given her morphine to take but I never heard her complain. She passed away in her sleep. I was glad to be there.