Dust of Eden Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’ll make him proud. Tell Grandpa not to work too much; that old boy can be in the garden like a fifteen year old, but the sun is hot and he’s getting old. Tell them that all the boys and I are here to fight, and we’re ready to fight for our country. I’m sending you some bars of soap and chocolates—send my love, and I’ll write you more when I have more time.
    Your loving brother, Nick

March 1944
    Father does not
    speak as he goes
    about his days,
    working at the newspaper.
    Mom’s hands,
    as red and chapped as rotten
    plums, move busily
    knitting a scarf for Nick.
    Grandpa coughs a hollow
    cough, once, twice,
    again and again,
    until his entire body trembles.

April 1944
    Miss Straub almost sings.
    Hope is the thing with feathers
    that perches in the soul,
    and sings the tune without the words,
    and never stops at all.
    And the words keep flying out of Miss Straub’s mouth,
    and Emily Dickinson keeps singing
    and I close my eyes
    and Miss Straub closes her book.

May 1944
    The sun glares down on top of us,
    my father, my mother, and Grandpa.
    We are in a row of four,
    from east to west,
    as we till the ground.
    The water from irrigation feeds the land.
    We tame the land with our hands, with Grandpa’s
    dream to make this land as green as Seattle, greener
    and darker, banishing the tumbleweeds.
    The sun is strong,
    our shadows darker
    the darkest of dark.
    There is no sound.
    The earth is dry,
    the sky so stark blue with white
    clouds the size of two barracks put together.
    We measure Grandpa’s dream with earth,
    changing the land from dusk-yellow to darkest brown.
    Grandpa sings,
    he is the farmer, the gardener,
    the guardian of this land.
    Grandpa sings,
    We must be patient,
    with our dreams. The land will listen. The land will dream.
    The land will sing itself to sleep, and when it wakes up,
    it will be fertile, and roots will take roots.
    We will make this our land, our home.

June 1944
    The first soldier from the camp
    came back yesterday
    as an American flag, folded.
    Yesterday, Tadaharu “Ted”
    Komiya, quarterback for the University
    of Washington, came home,
    dead. The only son of Mr. and Mrs. Komiya
    in Area B. He came back
    without a body. Only a purple star
    and a letter of regret.
    The whole mess hall had a moment of silence
    to grieve for him.

July 1944
    Dear Nick,
    After you left
    for Mississippi, the roses
    finally blossomed in colors of pink, red,
    white…and even light blue.
    Remember when Grandpa told us his
    dream about growing blue roses?
    People from miles away
    come to buy Grandpa’s roses,
    even the guards on their days off.
    Father is getting better.
    More and more, he’s helping Grandpa
    with the rose garden like he used to
    back home. Mother is well;
    she’s still working in the kitchen.
    Grandpa can’t stop coughing,
    I worry about him.
    We’re trying to stay
    cheerful, though it’s not
    the same without you.
    Miss Straub, my new
    teacher, has been talking to us
    about what it means to be
    an American. She says that it doesn’t
    matter who we are—a man, a woman
    negro, oriental, old, young.
    None of that matters.
    What matters is whether we are being
    the best person we know how to be
    at any given time. Don’t get yourself
    killed. We are waiting for the war to end
    so you can come back to us.
    I miss you. And I’m so proud of you.
    Your sister, Mina Masako

July 1944
    Dear Jamie,
    I’m sure I told you
    Nick’s volunteered.
    He’s written a couple
    of times, saying he’s doing
    well. You know Nick.
    He’s so cheerful most
    of the time (well, at least
    back in Seattle) and I think
    he is much happier now
    than he was in the camp.
    Father was pretty upset
    but like a “good Japanese,”
    he eventually shrugged
    and said, shikataganai— can’t be helped.
    It’s so strange to be
    here, even after two years.
    I feel more American now
    than I ever did.
    But there’s also a very strong
    Japanese-ness here, too. Like
    living quietly so we don’t
    bother others,