In Memoriam Saeko Kawahara

For my Grandma Sy

Summer 1998

The clam digger squats,

intent upon her hole

filling five empty gallons of soy sauce

with filter-feeding rocks.

She remembers

chanting nam-myōhō-renge-kyō every morning,

the gong praying for peace and for happiness.

Maybe this is a memory of war,

of eight years old in

evacuated Nagasaki, 1945.

Repercussions reverberate.

Oysters crowd around her

as if listening to her story

waiting in line to be cut and dyed

like so many little old ladies of West Seattle.

Her grandson thunders down the dock

prepubescent energy shaking loose 
waves meant for higher tides.

"Deni-chan. Comb he-ah."

Danny as in Daniel.

God is my judge

but not my interpreter.

No, He knocked down a tower

and turned tongues into trees,

contorting vowels unrecognizable

until only consonants remained.

The crossing of oceans splits syllables

forgotten across generations

but blood is saltier than oceans

and accents are heard

decades away from landing at shore.

I read billboards aloud because of you.

I have dimples because of you.

I have years of bowl cuts

and a love of unorthodox Thanksgiving dinners

and a grieving sadness every Valentine's Day because of you.

I was ten.

Your daughter tried to make

me read The Joy Luck Club

to understand you

to understand her.

I couldn't get past the cover,

but I could see her tears.

And still you sit there,

only now, you gather

dust on the bookshelf,

name engraved in the family shrine

across the Pacific,

your company oyster shells

painted with googly eyes

and plastered with striped feathers,

the kind of face only a child could see.

I am still thundering.

I am still making waves.

Digging down to my roots

I am looking for you.

And I am finding myself.