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| 105 | RONIN OF THE INVISIBLE TATTOOS | 8 Ronin of the Invisible Tattoos Miko wore a tattoo on the back of her shoulder, a muted morning glory. The choice blue blossom was almost closed, captured late in the day. She turned to show me that tattoo on the park bench, but we were interrupted, as you know, by the roamers. She stayed with me last night in the ruins, and bared her only tattoo in the shadows of the firelight. By morning she heard the children in the kabuki ghost parade. Miko counted out the minutes to eight fifteen ante meridiem in the ruins. The overnight memories, worries, and dares of children, their faces, teases, secrets, and precious treasures, were incinerated in motion. Not one child had the time to fear the emperor. The carp swam over seared, black bodies in the river. Birds burned to ashes on the wing, and the soft shadows of withered hands mark the concrete sidewalks. The children became dust, eternal atomu cries at that moment in the ghost parade. Miko gave me a mirror with a rough wooden handle that was out of balance and turned in my hand. I could not find my face in the mirror. The images were uncertain, distorted, unstable, but she was always there on the curve with a lusty smile. My face was lost in the mirror. She told me not to worry, my true image would emerge one day. Miko distracted me with her tease, and then turned to a wicker basket in the corner of the ruins. She picked out several scraps of my notes and read sections out loud. She was moved by the story of my mother, a bugi dancer, and my spirited encounter with the nanazu over a wooden sword at Sagami Bay. Kappa story. No, nanazu tricksters. Same story. My manuscript was written on scraps of paper, on post cards, the back of tickets, napkins, broadsides, remnants of paper the roamers gathered for me in the peace park. Ota Yoko inspired me to write my stories in this way. She was hibakusha and wrote the City of Corpses on shoji and scraps of paper in one month of extreme misery after the atomu bomb destroyed the city. Manuscript paper could not be found at the time. | RONIN OF THE INVISIBLE TATTOOS | 106 | My stories are remnants. Oshima walked to the river to wash his face and hands, a morning ritual after the parade. The stench of dead carp and putrid weeds lingered on the shore. Miko saw his twisted hands and blunt fingers for the first time as he removed his shirt. She was touched by his misery, but not worried, and with no hesitation she lathered his arms and hands. Then she rinsed away the soap and gently dried his hard, scaly skin. Oshima looked away at first, but then turned to admire her perfect hands and the wild blush on her face. I could see he was shied by her attention, but, at the same time, he could not turn away. She asked if he wanted to see her tattoo. Tears came to his eyes as she opened her white silk blouse. She revealed one breast and the tattoo on her shoulder. He reached out to touch the morning glory, and only then she shivered slightly, but did not move away. He traced the outline of the choice blossom with his hard, blunt fingers. Oshima praised her as a healer, a miko of the silky shadows. Shinto shaman. Miko of the shrines. Natural healer. Oshima was roused by her touch and moved with a clumsy bounce, a modern kami dance on the way to the Andersen Bakery in the Hondori Shopping Arcade. The scent of fresh breads and cakes reached almost to the ruins. Oshima was on the rise, an easy promise denied for sixty years as a leper. He turned and posed as a kagura dancer on the street. The sun was muted in the humid morning haze, and the rash of light created a luminous, natural hue on our faces as we walked to the bakery. We were kami dancers. Wild shadows of tradition. Virga ran ahead of us, as usual, and licked the bare feet of many children. That mongrel was a healer in the black rain. She was a dancer at creation, and we heard the sudden laughter of children in the distance. Miko ordered her usual breakfast of maple kuchen and a pot of green tea...

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