on august 29, there was a record-breaking storm in aichi prefecture, where my grandmother (momoe) lives in her pre-war row house. there are 2 rooms, not including the kitchen, the bathroom, and the room for the obutsudan. also there is a little hallway that is full of old stuff. the house used to just be one room, with a kitchen, until my grandmother created an annex for her knitting school. i think my grandmother's talent for design is a little extraordinary, but maybe that's because i like her a lot. but even my dad, who couldn't care less about these things, acknowledges her abilities.
anyway, the house. after my mother left 36 years ago, the house has conformed to the shape of momoe's life. there are piles of things all over the place, but everything is exactly where it is supposed to be, and none of it gets in her way as she totters on her two unbending legs and her push-cart. she is, in a sense, completely alone. my mother left Japan right after her father passed away from throat cancer, and right after momoe's own mother passed away. as for the house, it is virtually the last structure of its kind left standing in the neighborhood - all the other houses in the row have been demolished and reconstructed as apartments or single family homes. nagoya (the third largest city in japan) is growing and people are moving to neighborhoods like momoe's, because of the convenient location and access to public transportation.
but climbing real estate values are just the newest threat to the survival of this house. during the air-raids of WW2, a faulty incendiary bomb fell on the roof and never detonated. for a long time, they left the hole in the roof as a reminder. more recently, my mother proposed tearing down the house to build a new, more modern structure with multiple floors so that more people could live there (ie: herself). the plan failed, it was too late.
the night of the storm, i lay awake on the floor of the room where my grandfather died, trying not to think about all the ghosts following people around in this neighborhood, trying to re-forget the young Androy man i met 3 years ago in Fort Dauphin, trying to suppress all the sadness of isolation. i was so busy trying to empty my mind that i never noticed the water seep through the entrance (like many japanese houses, my grandmother's house is raised about a foot and a half above the ground, which is where we leave our shoes when we enter the house.) The streets outside must have looked like a river. all i could hear was the rattling window panes, the gusts of wind, and the slapping raindrops against the roof and walls. i felt better, though, as if the world outside were throwing a tantrum on my behalf.
anyway, the house. after my mother left 36 years ago, the house has conformed to the shape of momoe's life. there are piles of things all over the place, but everything is exactly where it is supposed to be, and none of it gets in her way as she totters on her two unbending legs and her push-cart. she is, in a sense, completely alone. my mother left Japan right after her father passed away from throat cancer, and right after momoe's own mother passed away. as for the house, it is virtually the last structure of its kind left standing in the neighborhood - all the other houses in the row have been demolished and reconstructed as apartments or single family homes. nagoya (the third largest city in japan) is growing and people are moving to neighborhoods like momoe's, because of the convenient location and access to public transportation.
but climbing real estate values are just the newest threat to the survival of this house. during the air-raids of WW2, a faulty incendiary bomb fell on the roof and never detonated. for a long time, they left the hole in the roof as a reminder. more recently, my mother proposed tearing down the house to build a new, more modern structure with multiple floors so that more people could live there (ie: herself). the plan failed, it was too late.
the night of the storm, i lay awake on the floor of the room where my grandfather died, trying not to think about all the ghosts following people around in this neighborhood, trying to re-forget the young Androy man i met 3 years ago in Fort Dauphin, trying to suppress all the sadness of isolation. i was so busy trying to empty my mind that i never noticed the water seep through the entrance (like many japanese houses, my grandmother's house is raised about a foot and a half above the ground, which is where we leave our shoes when we enter the house.) The streets outside must have looked like a river. all i could hear was the rattling window panes, the gusts of wind, and the slapping raindrops against the roof and walls. i felt better, though, as if the world outside were throwing a tantrum on my behalf.
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