VISIONS OF CHISATO
the clothesline stret-ch-es
across the length
of the backyard
proof of father’s handiwork
and
white bedsheets shiver
in the
near-winter
wind.
but there is the promise of
sun
light
bright, warm & life-affirming
on laundryday every Saturday
mom stands on a
platform built by dad
and hangs the clothes
with
homemade clothespins
to save money
but what was she thinking?
about
girlhood
in Japan with sisters
and brothers
and handsome parents
prospering on
rice, fish, and lumber
or was she thinking
about her life
in
Celestial Canada
where she
landed
in struggle & poverty
on a lumber raft shack
floating north
of civilization
worried for
her baby son drowning
in
the cold blue
waters
of the Strait of Georgia
I see her dancing
among
the white cotton
sheets
arms led by pointed hands
curving round her body
as her legs strain
to
gently perfect the choreography
an odori of joy
in the cold air,
the rushing wind,
the light rain
her hair grows wet
but
she doesn’t care
the past is behind her
the hate is behind her
the promise of
prosperity,
shining in her sons’ eyes
the spit of race, the rush of unintelligible words,
the rough calluses of hands
grabbing, pushing, and tightly gripping.
the rage of the mind
the tears
of alien woods
the fear of the uncertain
in the fire of the endless soul.
but she survived
only to scrape by
and live in a prairie shack until…
I see her
lying in the grass,
her
back to me
sitting up her arms extended
for support her hands planted
at a crooked angle
and gazing
at a distant clothesline,
warm bedsheets flapping &
beckoning calling
her home, a 2-storey
sagging house,
standing on the horizon,
a
little weather-worn
but standing.
she is young, a loose
summer dress,
her hair done in a bun,
I can’t see her face, but
I feel
she is smiling.
she returns to our backyard
hanging sheets
in the winter of
her life and home.
a vision
of Chisato
soon fades into
a world empty of her
and I am left with the snapping
of laundry in the stiffening
wind,
but there remains
an aroma of fresh, clean
and inviting bedsheets. the
aroma
of a ghost.
Note: ‘Odori’ is a ‘folk dance’
Terry Watada is a well-published writer living in Toronto. He has five poetry collections, three novels and a short story collection in print. His latest publications include The Four Sufferings, poetry (Mawenzi House, Toronto ON 2020) and Mysterious Dreams of the Dead novel (Anvil Press, Vancouver BC 2020).
