The Reply

Every year, at Christmas, I write to you.  Inside the envelope I include photos, photos of our growing family.  I know that this envelope will find its way into your hands, your aging hands, and bring a smile to your face.  However, every year that passes, as I drop the envelope in the mailbox, I pray a little harder that it is you who writes back.  A month later, when I see your name on the reply, I sigh a sigh of relief. 

We cannot escape the years that have past, nor the many, many years that lie between us.  Even then, 15 years ago, we referred to you as our Japanese grandmother.  Twice, sometimes, three times a week we’d spend time with you.  Like a true grandmother, your treats were predictable and appreciated; fresh bread on Tuesday, beer for Reuben, and the most delicious hotel omelette and iced coffee on Wednesdays.  We’d spend afternoons together; once a week with just me, once a week with just Reuben, and once a week the three of us would dine together.  I don’t know what I loved most - the days I could explain to you my upbringing and ask about yours or our time as a threesome, when you’d laugh your infectious laugh at how our modern-relationship worked.  You’d pry into the details and marvel at my strength as a woman and Reuben’s progressiveness as a man.  Little did you know, I still marvel at yours - wife of a doctor, mother, continual student, friend, and Japanese grandmother to a handful of lucky foreigners in Ube, Yamaguchi, Japan.

So, this year, when I opened my mailbox and saw your family name I smiled.  It was short-lived, however, because beside your family name was your husband’s name.  Replaced was your beautiful penmanship that I have gotten to know so well with more masculine calligraphy. I held it together with the mail in my hand until I walked in the door.  Reuben and I opened it and read your husbands words together.  Tears instantly flooded the page.  Cancer.  Last fall.  He’s grief stricken.  How will he live without you? How will any of us? 

Toshiko, my Japanese grandmother, you will be greatly missed, continue to be spoken of often in our home.  Today, I grieve.  Today, I remember that infectious smile, kind manner, and inquisitive mind.  You opened your heart and your home to two twenty-somethings and while it was an odd friendship, it was one that we hold so very dear.

Sayonara, Esato-San.