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Haruka Y.

Okāsan - A portrait




The red round curtain rise as the cicadas begin to chime. The steady beat of the knife hitting the cutting board, the continual notes of the tap water, her unconscious humming to Haru by Rentaro Taki -- all unite to introduce the day.


Her treasures to complete her recipes reside inside the yeti, where it’s frosty breath wraps around her fragile ingredients. She reaches her arms deep into it, pushing away the expired yogurt that would later be consumed with fruit granola, and hunts for the five treasures: eggs, milk, butter, flour, and sugar. It’s her partner in crime, while a bully to my health.


Her muscular arms conduct music; of claws scratching an itching bowl, that interrupts the tranquil pool of egg yolks and non-fat milk. The flour, soft and white as her complexion, creates a mixture thick as her skin. As the speed of the whisking winds down, the chorus begins.

The cicadas migrate swiftly from the trees in the garden to the frying pan. The beaming sunlight makes her hair identical to her husband’s black enamel suit shoes. The mixture begins to shape-shift from liquid to solid, like her fixed mind. After flipping the cooked mixture, her naked fingers adjust the position of the burnt moon. The cicadas multiply and the sizzle intensifies.


Forced by the heat and humidity, she finally gives up her patience and plays the fan. The buzzing wind harmonizes the room. With even the smallest breeze, her petite body could fly out the window, but she knows how to stand her ground. Her dress floats away with the wind; with the wrong direction of the fan, her dress will burn. But without worry, she hums.


The adagio of the cicadas, the staccato of the knife hitting the cutting board, the accent of the tap water, the minor chords played by the fan, her humming to Rentaro Taki, are all interrupted by the fine and fast footsteps of children.


The second verse begins with the chatter of excitement, the clinks of silverware on the Mug cups brought home as souvenirs from a family trip to New York, and the kitchen towels rubbed against the table cloth where syrup is spilled. Soon after the burnt moon is placed on the table, our mouths are too busy to speak a word. The only excuse to speak is when we complain about finding our mother’s black short hair inside the pancake.


She takes the expired yogurt from the fridge, sprinkles some fruit granola on top, and rests herself in front of us. She watches the cicadas hang on to the trees in the garden with utmost effort and says, “Look”. The cicadas fall out of their shell and onto the grass.


The plates are empty and the seats are tucked under the table. “Thank you, Okāsan,” we say. After we leave the table, she stays seated in the silent room alone, to listen to the cicadas flying in from a far distance.


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