that they are doing this for our safety. They say
that we will be taken care of. They say that it’s for our own
good.
Ware ware no tame da , Grandpa says quietly in Japanese.
He reaches over, then taking a pair of scissors,
snips off a bud.
Ware ware no tame da , he repeats again. I know
that’s a lie. I know they are doing this to hurt us. But I do
not say anything at all. Ware ware no tame da,
his words echo in my head.
It’s for our own good, he says. Or so they say.
April 1942
We have one week
to get ready.
It’s only been one week
since Mother and Grandpa
went to the Japanese
American Citizens League
Office and registered us
to be evacuated
to a place called Camp
Puyallup somewhere
not far away.
We are to leave
on Thursday, April
30th. Not a single Japanese
is to stay in Seattle
after May 1.
Mother and Grandpa
told us we are not
selling the house
like other families,
but that we’ll board it up,
and that we’ll be back.
We have a week to say
good-bye, a week
to pack everything up.
It’s a week that
seems not long
enough,
but forever.
April 1942
What I can take:
the Bible that Mother gave me for my 12th birthday
my journals
Jamie’s Christmas present
homework assignments for the rest of the semester
(in case I return to Garfield next September)
clothes for autumn (maybe for winter, too)
the things that the WRA has ordered us to take:
blankets and linen; a toothbrush, soap,
also knives, forks, spoons, plates, bowls and cups.
What I cannot take:
Basho
our house
Jamie
the choir
Grandpa’s rose garden
Seattle and its sea-smell
What my Grandfather packs:
a potted rose
April 1942
Basho is old.
The mangy
orange kitten
with a broken tail
came to the front
steps on a rainy
day and no matter
how much Grandpa shooed
it away, the cat kept
mewing until
Grandpa got sick
of it and pulled him
from under the porch
by the scuff
of his neck
and stuffed him
into the bed
next to him.
Fleas got
Grandpa, but Basho got
Grandpa. Basho came
when I was five.
See that scar
on his cheek?
He got it fighting
Kuro from four
houses down; he won.
See how his left
ear is torn? He got
it fighting
crows that were in the roses.
Basho brings gifts;
don’t be surprised.
Birds. Squirrels. Baby
moles. Basho likes
to have his ears
pulled gently.
He’ll show you
his belly if you do
that. He doesn’t understand
English; he grew up
around us, listening to
Japanese. He doesn’t drink
milk. He grew up drinking
miso soup and eating bonito
flakes and rice.
He is a good cat.
Please take care
of him. He’ll love
you, like he loves us,
like we love
him, like I love you. Jamie.
April 1942
Mother stands
in the middle
of the room,
our sofas
and table
and chairs
covered in
white sheets
looking like Halloween
ghosts.
She walks,
the sound of
her bare footsteps
across
the bare floor
empty, up
the bare steps
to my room,
where she puts me to sleep
on a blanket
on the floor.
It is cold;
I never knew
our house could
be so cold.
April 1942
The nursery is dismantled,
each glass pane taken off
from the frame. All the windows
of our house are boarded up;
the car’s inside the garage.
Everything has been put into
boxes and crates and stored
in the garage or with the Gilmores.
My room is bare except
for the naked bed and an empty
dresser draped in white; it’s
my very own ghost.
Mr. Gilmore shakes his head
as Mother gives him the keys,
“I don’t know what the world
is coming to, but don’t worry,
we’ll take care of everything.
They’ll realize how silly all this
is, and you’ll be back here
before you know it.” Mother bows
deeply, her shoulders trembling
like a feather, and Mrs. Gilmore
puts her arm around Mother, she, too,
shaking. Mr. Gilmore opens
the door to his truck
where the back is filled
with our bags. Grandpa stands
in front of our house, feeling
the bark of the cherry blossom
tree he
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