Kintsugi

Ink on paper

The object in my house that reminds me most of my Grandma has always been a pink-flowered teacup— cracked from the move. It sits beside a blue one, intact— its pair—my Grandfather's.

I think about what it was like growing up in Japan during the war, what it was like to work under MacArthur; fall in love with a Chinese-American, how disorienting it must have been going from Kobe to Erie. I think about Steve passing before age 18; how that impacted my Dad the gaps in between.

My Grandma, the stern yet kooky woman who slapped my back to sit up straight and sang with Boops and Baps while filling my bowl with rice. My Grandma a woman who had to build and rebuild over and over. I wonder about the world of thought I didn't get to see.