Free Dust of Eden by Mariko Nagai Page A

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