I Remember Tobata :: Matyroshka

My writing from week 3 of The Visceral Self

I remember Tobata¹

I remember the green bands of silk around our tatami's edges, diamond shapes, smoothness and grass smell. The old man who chain smoked outside his tatami shop, dust of rice stalks yellow motes amidst the blue burning of tobacco. The humid air a thing that coalesced on our skin like a winter coat worn too long into spring. 

I remember the dark alleyway and the puddles that led to the antique market, the dark gold zabuton we found there decorated with dancing horses, archers, and flowers the same green as our tatami's edges. The gentle speech of the woman dressed in purple. How she cooed at our son's eyelashes, like chou, like butterflies. 

I remember rain that poured down more copious than any other rain, trees heavy and wild with wetness. Their green leaves darkening to the depth of the silk edges of our tatami, the circle of flowers on our zabuton. The ubiquity of silk, piles of kimono on tables at the temple market, musty beauty, gauze for summer, the stickiness of it while wet. Sweet sakura mochi wrapped in leaves and the taste of it on your lips.

I remember the way the canal would rise and muddy, the koi's orange, black, and white patterns clamouring at the surface for bits of bread. The old black bike I pedalled alongside learning how to balance my red umbrella while riding. A floating through wet drops, koi kites in the sky on children's day. 

I remember the house hidden by tall brick walls, the hill alongside it, the scent of jasmine from the tree overhanging the steep path. A shortcut to the station all uphill. Our thighs burning, our skin glistening. But oh the jasmine, and the doughy treats we bought before boarding the train.

I remember the temple with its hundreds of tiny ceramic foxes, white, with smiling red mouths and gold filled ears. Hidden torii, glimpses of red through the bamboo. A wide mouth to walk through before leaving offerings, bowing, and clapping three times.

The zabuton that inspired this piece.

Matyroshka

I became a mother at 19, my own mother still mothering my three siblings. I was only a mother for a few days in hospital, delighting in how my daughter curled her tiny tongue. I am a birth mother. I gave my daughter up for open adoption so I could continue my music degree, my longing for music so strong. My daughter was mothered wonderfully by M who died only a few years ago, her ovaries seeded with tiny little deaths, her exuberance waning over years. My daughter, an adult, now with only me as her mother again.

I became a mother again at 25, settled more solidly so I could attend to mothering, living back in my hometown with the support of mother and mother-in-law, the kindness of both grandmothers. My maternal grandmother had forgotten me by then. Thought I was her daughter, my aunt, our long limbs and curling hair so alike. But she held my infant son so tenderly in her arms, cradled his soft skull cooing David, David, David remembering her own son, my uncle. This grandmother died a few months later, quietly, a fresh memory of a fresh child in her arms. My own mother motherless then, though she had already grieved for years, her mother's memories so clouded, but so peaceful and content.

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You can read my writing from weeks 1 & 2 here.

1. Tobata is the name of the neighbourhood we lived in in Kitatykushu, Japan, from 2003-2005.