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Authors: Alyson Richman
Tags: Historical, Art
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new zest for life now that he had a male companion in the house. The family dinners were now convivial, unlike the quiet meals of her childhood, which had become the norm after the death of her brother. Grandfather’s eyes sparkled, as they hadn’t in years, enjoying the entirely new set of ears to which he could tell his colorful stories. Grandmother’s body began to relax slightly as her daughter assumed the chores of head female of the household. With great anticipation and happiness they began the next stages of their life.
When Mother announced that she had forgone two consecutive monthly defilements, the response to the news was overwhelming. She had never seen her parents more filled with joy.
Grandmother walked over to her daughter’s side and gently kissed her blushing cheek. “Your father and I are so happy for you,” she whispered. In her heart she prayed that the child would be healthy and male—the two things that had evaded her own family.
Grandfather raised his cup of sake and toasted my health, the heir to the Yamamoto name.
“Soon I will have a grandson,” he declared, upon rising from the low table. He seemed to believe that since the gods had denied him a son, they would smile on his good deed of having adopted the lonely mask carver, and now bestow on him the grandson he so passionately craved. He knew it would be selfish for him to insist that the boy be raised to be an actor, and so, to appease the gods with one more selfless act, he added to his toast: “And as it is with so much pride and joy that I look upon this day, I hope that my grandson will live to become as great a mask carver as his father!” He lowered his gaze to Father and raised his cup. “With great anticipation do I look forward to the day that Mother and I can bestow on him his first set of chisels.”
Father, slightly overwhelmed by all of the emotion that was flowing through the room, managed to awkwardly raise his cup and acknowledge Grandfather’s toast. His wife had told him the night before that she suspected she was with child and he had received the news with mixed emotions. Certainly he was thrilled with the thought of creating his own family, perhaps he truly was no longer bound to the wood. It had never occurred to him that he might have the power to create a human life. For the past thirty years of his life he had felt almost nonhuman. Neither a man nor a ghost. Perhaps something in between, a man made of wood.
Now there was a life growing inside the womb of his wife that he was partly responsible for. Another person to protect. Another person who must be sheltered from the clawing vines of death.
He allowed his wife to place his hands on her stomach. So that he might feel the heartbeat, my heartbeat. So that he might feel the difference between flesh and wood.
Her stomach was still as flat as a tablet. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine their child being formed from each of the fibers in my mother’s womb, a process so different from his craft. Within that warm, carefully cushioned shrine that contained the cells of generations of tradition and talent, I would be created.
He remembered the eyes of his father and how his life had seemed to begin at the hour when he arrived home. When his eyes fell upon those of his wife and those of his sons. His family.
With each passing day Father found it easier to imagine himself in his newfound role. His masks became less interesting to him compared to his family. Perhaps Tamashii had never known such joy, I believe Father thought to himself as he searched for reasons why his master so strongly advised against an emotional life. Perhaps his life was filled only with sadness. But perhaps Father believed, for the first time, that he could triumph where his master had failed. Over sadness. Over death.
The first thing he did after Mother announced her pregnancy was forbid her to eat plums. “They are no good for you or the baby,” he told her, gently sweeping
When Mother announced that she had forgone two consecutive monthly defilements, the response to the news was overwhelming. She had never seen her parents more filled with joy.
Grandmother walked over to her daughter’s side and gently kissed her blushing cheek. “Your father and I are so happy for you,” she whispered. In her heart she prayed that the child would be healthy and male—the two things that had evaded her own family.
Grandfather raised his cup of sake and toasted my health, the heir to the Yamamoto name.
“Soon I will have a grandson,” he declared, upon rising from the low table. He seemed to believe that since the gods had denied him a son, they would smile on his good deed of having adopted the lonely mask carver, and now bestow on him the grandson he so passionately craved. He knew it would be selfish for him to insist that the boy be raised to be an actor, and so, to appease the gods with one more selfless act, he added to his toast: “And as it is with so much pride and joy that I look upon this day, I hope that my grandson will live to become as great a mask carver as his father!” He lowered his gaze to Father and raised his cup. “With great anticipation do I look forward to the day that Mother and I can bestow on him his first set of chisels.”
Father, slightly overwhelmed by all of the emotion that was flowing through the room, managed to awkwardly raise his cup and acknowledge Grandfather’s toast. His wife had told him the night before that she suspected she was with child and he had received the news with mixed emotions. Certainly he was thrilled with the thought of creating his own family, perhaps he truly was no longer bound to the wood. It had never occurred to him that he might have the power to create a human life. For the past thirty years of his life he had felt almost nonhuman. Neither a man nor a ghost. Perhaps something in between, a man made of wood.
Now there was a life growing inside the womb of his wife that he was partly responsible for. Another person to protect. Another person who must be sheltered from the clawing vines of death.
He allowed his wife to place his hands on her stomach. So that he might feel the heartbeat, my heartbeat. So that he might feel the difference between flesh and wood.
Her stomach was still as flat as a tablet. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine their child being formed from each of the fibers in my mother’s womb, a process so different from his craft. Within that warm, carefully cushioned shrine that contained the cells of generations of tradition and talent, I would be created.
He remembered the eyes of his father and how his life had seemed to begin at the hour when he arrived home. When his eyes fell upon those of his wife and those of his sons. His family.
With each passing day Father found it easier to imagine himself in his newfound role. His masks became less interesting to him compared to his family. Perhaps Tamashii had never known such joy, I believe Father thought to himself as he searched for reasons why his master so strongly advised against an emotional life. Perhaps his life was filled only with sadness. But perhaps Father believed, for the first time, that he could triumph where his master had failed. Over sadness. Over death.
The first thing he did after Mother announced her pregnancy was forbid her to eat plums. “They are no good for you or the baby,” he told her, gently sweeping
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