LEAVING TOKYO IS LEAVING YOU

And I, who had never had any problems saying goodbye ever, am suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to tell her what she means to me - Te quiero Mrs. O, te quiero

Yoshida Katsuro, Work 9

When I return from late nights out in Jiyugaoka or Kamata, Mr. N is sometimes the night man. Like the rest of the evening crew he is older, a full head of silver hair, and speaks English well. Don’t know how it started, maybe a casual conversation before I headed upstairs, but now Mr. N often motions me over to the desk and hands me an immaculately handwritten piece of paper recommending music that he thinks I might enjoy. Music from his past, before the nice suit.

First was Melanie’s Brand New Key and a bunch of Dylan and The Cars. I try to reciprocate. I offer Rodriguez and Bonga and Ismael Rivera. He offers up Peggy Hayama’s Gakuien Jidai and Akiko Yano’s Ramen Tabetai. I assumed like many of the former execs that work with him Mr. N learned his English abroad on corporate assignment, but he smiles sheepishly.

I learned from American music. I taught myself.

Seriously?

Yes, I was very serious.

Last night Mr. N wasn’t at the night desk. Two more nights before I fly home, and I carry my next rec in my wallet just in case.

Mrs. O takes me out for our final lunch at the new Italian spot near her gallery. She always loves to try new restaurants. Besides my Bronx tía, Mrs. O is the closest person I have to a true mother figure. She has known me forever: remembers the hair and the wild days with her sons. Every time we visited her in Boston she would wait up and cook us dinner at 3, 4 in the morning. My first real Japanese food. She couldn’t believe all the books I brought with me for a two-day visit. Her brother-in-law had wanted to be a writer, had immigrated to San Francisco for that purpose after the war, but had died very soon after, before he could publish anything. At the family temple we offer prayers for him, for all those books that never came.

Mrs. O is in her 80s, shows no sign of slowing down. Can still hustle through rush hour train stations faster than me. She is my definition of invincible. At lunch she tells me that Peggy Hayama attended her high school, a couple years ahead of her — and then relates that next year will be her high school association’s last reunion.

Why? I ask.

Everyone is too old now.

The end of an era that stretches from the crater that was Aoyama in the late 40s until now, the glittering world. She smiles, completely amused by the whole thing, and when I say Oh no in sympathy she laughs, mischief in her eyes. She is barely 4 feet 10 and works six days a week and will never stop and when we say good-bye and embrace (she lived in the US too long to give up abrazos just because Japanese don’t do them) I feel the brittleness of her hair on my cheek and I, who had never had any problems saying good-bye ever, am suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to tell her what she means to me — te quiero Mrs. O, te quiero, but I can’t. All I can manage is: You are the first person I try to see when I land in Japan.

She nods, not smiling now. I always wait for you, Yuni.

A bow, a wave, and then without a glance back Mrs. O leaves, a small figure disappearing into the throngs of the new Aoyama.

I’m one of those cats who always had older friends — but, like, significantly older. When I was 9 my best friend was a Korean War vet retiree. For real. Big part of it is that I was raised by my abuelos in Santo Domingo. My mother was too busy with her job and my older brother to pay much attention to me or my sister — which truly sucked — but at least I had my abuelos. Country folks with no formal education but good at everything that mattered, and what little I know about Dominican-anything they taught me. My abuelo was the first person to take me to the movies — martial arts films he criticized under his breath for not being bloody enough. He was also super lax with us; let my brother wander the neighborhood at will, and let me climb our mango tree and stay up there for hours watching for the plane that would bring my father back to the family. It was most definitely not a safe past-time and as soon as my mother got back from the job, she shouted me out of the tree — our daily routine.

When we finally emigrated from the Dominican Republic I wasn’t told we were leaving the country for good, just going on a little trip for a day or two. Therefore, I have no memory of saying good-bye to my grandparents at all. In the end, we didn’t see each other again for many, many years.

They’re both long gone, and here I am still waving good-bye.