Red Streamer Yokohama, Japan, 1959
A gray April morning
aboard a U.S. Navy ship.
Mother and I spot her
standing on the dock.
I yell, Obachan, Grandma.
Her obsidian eyes remain
strong, tearless, vigilant.
My small body keeps throwing
thin streamers, landing nowhere.
Then Grandmother’s determined
hand catches the last strand.
For an instant, we all smile.
Aunts, uncles, cousins huddle
to grasp the wavering thread.
Mother’s moist hands clutch my fist.
The vessel begins its move.
We wave to touch. The line snaps.
Our half hangs against the hull.
Their side drops on dead seaweed.
Faces fade into the mist.
Eyes strain to hold us close.
A distant foghorn bellows
its solitary warning.
Red stains my palms like rope burns.
