A Souvenir for Mama

Everything is very white, isn't it? I am so cold. A hot bath would be very nice right now. We have such a fine wooden tub in our house in Tokyo.

Mama and I have lived in our house in Aoyama-dori ever since I can remember. I think we have always lived there. But sometimes, remembering makes me a little confused. Perhaps we lived in another place. I don't know exactly.

I do not leave the house very often. Mama looks after everything so well. Besides, if I go out in the street, neighborhood children tease me. They dance about and call me names. And old ladies dressed in kimono titter and talk about me behind their hands. I am sure it is because they are envious that their own grown daughters do not live with them—like I do with Mama. I just give them a disdainful look.

Mama says they are low-class people and I should keep a stiff upper lip. Once she found me practicing in front of a mirror and started to laugh. I laughed too, and my stiff upper lip disappeared in a twinkling. Mama is so sweet.

I especially like our garden. It has a bamboo fence that goes all the way around. Before she fell sick, Mama tended the garden with great diligence, and it was oh-so-beautiful. Wisteria, oleanders, hibiscus, sweet osmanthus, fragrant olive, and roses. I can't remember all the names. In summer the fragrance of the flowers and blossoms flowed into our house through an open window, like a beautifully scented stream.

Now, Mama must rest, even in the daytime. She says she is sad because the garden has fallen into disrepair. It's true. The mottled red, white, and black koi that glided about beneath the lily pads are gone from the pond. Only some repulsive green frogs live there now. There is an old haiku about a frog. I don't know why. They are such ugly things.

Mama used to ask me to gather flowers from the garden, but the flowers are gone, like the fish. I cut them all off with scissors. That was rather silly of me.

Even though the flowers have disappeared, I like to venture into the garden to watch the birds and butterflies that gather there. But, I am a bit uncertain about going alone. You see, there is a fox that stares through the fence. A badger, too. Foxes can change into human beings and back again. There are many things that can change like that.

What I like best is when Mama combs my hair.

"Yukiko," she says, "you have such beautiful, long hair." Sometimes she cries when she says it. I don't know why. I cry because Mama cries. Then Mama smiles gently and pats away my tears with her delicate, little handkerchief.

"You have perfect, almond-shaped eyes, Yukiko. You are a true Heian period beauty."

That always makes me feel better, although sometimes I can't remember what Heian ladies looked like.

When I ask Mama who my father is, sometimes she says he is a movie star. Sometimes an important politician. Sometimes a kabuki actor. And sometimes the emperor of Japan. I like the Emperor idea best. He seems very aristocratic on television. Even if he doesn't look at me or answer my letters, I am quite certain he is the one. I see fathers on television who live with their wives and children. I suppose the emperor is too busy to live with us.

I like to watch television and eat sweets. Belgian chocolates are my favorite. Mama says if I keep gobbling them I will lose my slender figure. But once I start, I just keep popping them in my mouth. I like it when sometimes, instead of watching television, Mama and I huddle together on the floor and look at fashion magazines.

Best of all, I like American movies. My favorites are the old ones with Audrey Hepburn or Debbie Reynolds. I am in the movie with them. Once, Audrey Hepburn was in Rome...