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Naoe

Ahhhhh this unrelenting, dust-driven, crack your fingers dry wind has withered my wits, I'm certain. Endless as thought as breath—ha! Not much breath left in this set of bellows, but this wind. Just blows and blows and blows. Soon be blowing dust over my mummy carcass and beetles won't find the tiniest bit of soft flesh to gnaw on, serves them right. Dust in my joints dry as rust and I creak. Well worn, I am. Well worked. Can't stoop to sweep up the dust swirling in the corners of the rooms. Dust swells and eddies, motes linger to parch my nose, my mouth. Don't bother dusting, I say. It'll come back, surely. Let the piles of dust grow and mound and I'll plant daikon and eggplant seeds. Let something grow from this daily curse. But no. Keiko just looks at me from the corners of her eyes. I know. I know. Never mind. No matter. Just let Obāchan sit in her chair in the hall so she can see who comes and goes. My back to the staircase, and I can see who comes through the front door. People have to pass me to get inside this house. Don't try to sneak by, I might stick out my foot. If I look straight ahead I can watch what goes on in half the living room. Turn my head to the right and I see all from the kitchen to the laundry room to the bathroom door. If I tip my head upward, I can see anyone who tries to creak down the stairs. No one moves in this house without meeting my eyes. Hearing my voice. Take no notice, I say. I'll try not to stare. I'll nod and smile. Welcome! Welcome! Into this pit of dust. This bowl of heat. Ohairi kudasai! Dōzo ohairi kudasai. Talk loudly and e-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-e. I might be stupid as well as deaf. How can they think a body can live in this country for twenty years and not learn the language? But let them think this. Let them think what they will, for they will. Solly, Obāchan no speeku Eeenglishu. Maybe I'm the fool, but stubborn I am and will remain. Keiko glances at me these days. More often than before with that curl of sour tofu curds lingering in her mouth. I'm not blind. I've heard the talk. "I think we should start looking for a h-o-m-e." As if I can't spell. Eighty-five years old and cast from my home. Ahhh, at least the dust here is familiar. Every grain, every mote as familiar as the smell of my body. No time now to learn new dust in a new home. Let me just sit here. Let me sit here in the hall by the door. There are no windows here to torment me. I can only hear the muffled roar of the wind through the insulated walls and I can drown out the incessant swirl of dust, of chaff, with words. Little songs. And hum.

I mutter and mutter and no one to listen. I speak my words in Japanese and my daughter will not hear them. The words that come from our ears, our mouths, they collide in the space between us.

"Obāchan, please! I wish you would stop that. Is it too much to ask for some peace and quiet? You do this on purpose, don't you? Don't you! I just want some peace. Just stop! Please, just stop."

"Gomennasai. Waruine, Obāchan wa. Solly. Solly."

Ha! Keiko, there is method in my madness. I could stand on my head and quote Shakespeare until I had a nosebleed, but to no avail, no one hears my language. So I sit and say the words and will, until the wind or I shall die. Someone, something must stand against this wind and I will. I am.