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Abstract

ht visit, and by which modes of transportation. Plans are always loose and malleable.This coming Sunday, it will have been three weeks since my return from Japan. I miss the quiet places.Upon returning to Seattle issues arose unbeckoned, filled with drama and side effects, mainly exhaustion.The virus I’d tried so hard to evade entered our house by a backdoor, through a beloved friend, your sister, who stayed with me for several days.Before that, was the evening our car seized up in the middle of a Seattle street. It took hours to get a tow truck to come while the temperature dropped.At a nearby Trader Joe’s, a manager named Charles was my first knight of the evening. He charged my phone, while I sat for hours between boxes of wine.The final tow truck driver, my second knight of the eve, managed to start the stuck car so he could tow it.He let me sit in his warm cab whil

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e he hooked up our car to his massive truck and navigated through narrow streets to our Seattle home.The next morning the car was towed to a mechanic.On Saturdays, we have returned to talking on What’s App, I can picture where you are now, in the guest house of your Japanese friends who have been like family for 40 years.You linger in your small kitchen, making coffee, cooking eggs in your yellow frying pan. Your morning is my late evening.You will head out the door, bundled, in your long black coat, and purple scarf, passing the pond on your way to the train.I am always waiting by the pond in some form, a falling red maple leaf, a dog on a leash, a bathing bird.Hearing your voice on the phone helps me conjure these scenes and how later, as the sun sets, I’ll tell you I’m lost at the pond again.And you will come lead me through the streets, back home.</article></body>

Imagining I Am Still in Japan With You

I’m waiting by the pond for you to find me again though there are oceans and islands between us now.

I dream of arising one morning, to walk downstairs and find you working at the kitchen table surrounded by a cacophony of pages.

It’s comforting to imagine us together in Japan.

I’ll drink coffee and practice my spoken Japanese.

When you’re done working you suggest places we might visit, and by which modes of transportation. Plans are always loose and malleable.

This coming Sunday, it will have been three weeks since my return from Japan. I miss the quiet places.

Upon returning to Seattle issues arose unbeckoned, filled with drama and side effects, mainly exhaustion.

The virus I’d tried so hard to evade entered our house by a backdoor, through a beloved friend, your sister, who stayed with me for several days.

Before that, was the evening our car seized up in the middle of a Seattle street. It took hours to get a tow truck to come while the temperature dropped.

At a nearby Trader Joe’s, a manager named Charles was my first knight of the evening. He charged my phone, while I sat for hours between boxes of wine.

The final tow truck driver, my second knight of the eve, managed to start the stuck car so he could tow it.

He let me sit in his warm cab while he hooked up our car to his massive truck and navigated through narrow streets to our Seattle home.

The next morning the car was towed to a mechanic.

On Saturdays, we have returned to talking on What’s App, I can picture where you are now, in the guest house of your Japanese friends who have been like family for 40 years.

You linger in your small kitchen, making coffee, cooking eggs in your yellow frying pan. Your morning is my late evening.

You will head out the door, bundled, in your long black coat, and purple scarf, passing the pond on your way to the train.

I am always waiting by the pond in some form, a falling red maple leaf, a dog on a leash, a bathing bird.

Hearing your voice on the phone helps me conjure these scenes and how later, as the sun sets, I’ll tell you I’m lost at the pond again.

And you will come lead me through the streets, back home.