SIXTY-TWO

The cool air of dawn brings Hatsuko the indispensable scent of the sea and the fragrance of sixty years of incense burned at the butsudan, mixed with the fresh smell of the igusa straw tatami beneath her. Now that she rests on her own futon she is ready. She knows that her final journey has begun when she hears again the chickens clucking and pecking about for tasty bugs. Goats bleating out their impatience to be fed. Pigs grunting as they root through cooling mud for the bits of sweet potato Mother has thrown out. Missing is the mooing of the cows, since they have all been requisitioned by the Imperial Army.

The groaning of wood against leather signals Papaya’s arrival, carrying a cartload of night soil. The leathery leaves of the tall sea hibiscus that line the narrow path slap against the cart as she makes her way out to the fields. A rustling in the thatched roof high overhead is followed by a series of happy chirps, and Hatsuko imagines the gecko that brought luck to her family puffing up the sac at his throat into a lovely pink bubble.

When their old rooster Kobo crows to announce her last day on earth, Hatsuko has only one regret: She never found Tamiko’s remains. Her sister’s earthbound spirit came to her last night only long enough for her to explain and be forgiven but not to learn where Tamiko’s bones are buried, which means that Tamiko will not be waiting for her in the next realm. She touches the lily pin on her chest and tells Mitsue, “Please make sure that no one removes this pin.”

“Of course.”

“Good,” she says, then speaks her final words, “I will see you again soon, my dearest friend.” A short while later, Kokuba Hatsuko leaves this world as easily as a boat slipping its moorings.

With her cousin’s last breath set free, Mitsue goes to work. It has been nearly half a century since she was part of a true Okinawan funeral, but with Hatsuko’s instructions to guide her, she calls in the five selected female relatives. Together they bathe Hatsuko, cut her fingernails, toenails, and hair, and wrap the clippings in fine rice paper to be buried with her. They dress her in the kimono Hatsuko had purchased for this day. Mitsue smiles when she sees that the kimono is printed in bright bingata style with images of her favorite animal, the Okinawan rail, a flightless bird being driven to extinction by the foreign invaders, mongooses, and cats. She fastens the lily pin to the front of her cousin’s kimono. As the backs of her fingers brush against the washboard ridges of her cousin’s motionless chest, the kami cause her to recall the hāfu girl trying to give her the lily pin. As is so often the case with the ways of the kami, she doesn’t understand why they put the girl in her heart. All that is clear is what must be done.

When they’re finished, Mitsue dispatches her helpers to notify everyone in Madadayo. There is only one outsider who must be told the news. The kami have made their mysterious wishes known. Mitsue begins making the calls that will connect her to the American girl.