Ojiisan

Fiction by Joan Slatoff. "In the time my parents were in Japan, before the bomb, only one letter got through. Ojii keeps it in a tan wooden puzzle box decorated with pink and white cherry blossoms."

Four months, and I feel her fluttering in my belly like a little koi. Her name is Ruby Rose Miyoko Hirai. Miyoko in honor of my mother, who I remember only as a soft pink moon. Hirai in honor of my father, Hiroshi Hirai, who I remember only as a scratchy sound like sandpaper. Mostly in honor of my grandfather, Masao Hirai, who I call Ojii.

Miyoko and Hiroshi died on August 6, 1945, in Hiroshima, having left two-year-old me in Hawaii with Ojii. They had gone to visit Miyoko’s mother in Japan. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, they weren’t allowed to leave. Then the bomb. The bomb.

When, as a child, I would ask Ojii if we could visit Japan someday, he would close his eyes and mumble quotes I never understood, such as, “A frog in a well knows nothing about the sea.”

We’re going to Japan next week and I need to see my grandfather. I also need to revisit something. When I say “we,” I am talking about Ruby Rose and me. Her father, a sweet folksinger I met only once, is not in the picture. My paternal grandmother, Ojii’s wife, was not in the picture very long, either. All I know of my family is Ojii, and soon, Ruby Rose. I’m not telling him until we return. He would worry we wouldn’t make it back.