We sat, laughing, on a patio bench in the Japanese Village Plaza. On the way, we’d bought a box of rainbow dango from Fugetsu-do. I had already eaten more than my share, but Bachan didn’t mind. A flower-printed yellow umbrella shaded us from the sun as red and white lanterns danced in the breeze over the heads of happy shoppers. It was spring: the time when the air is filled with birdsong and the sweet perfume of sakura. I could’ve stayed there forever, sinking my teeth into the chewy dango and swinging my legs. One of my knees hurt from hitting it on the sidewalk earlier. But I wasn’t worried—Bachan had already rubbed the cool, herbaceous salve she kept in her purse onto it. “It’s just a bruise, Nanami. You’ll be fine.” She always fixed everything—and pretended not to notice when I reached for another dango.

All the hospitals on TV are unsettlingly white, but this one was unsettlingly clean. The floor was shiny, the counters were empty, and all the staff members wore spotless scrubs. I wish it felt more like people live here and less like they’re trying not to die here, I thought. I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt as the nurses exited the hospital room. Then my mom and I walked in.

The bed was huge, with tall plastic guards on the sides and a machine underneath that projected colored symbols onto the floor. A large framed whiteboard hanging on the wall had neatly outlined boxes for the day of the week (Sunday), the names of various doctors (I counted six), and the discharge day (which was left blank). I kept my eyes on the board until Mom elbowed me.

“Say hello,” she mouthed. For the first time, I turned to my bachan.

Her bun was askew, her mustard-yellow hospital gown exposed one shoulder, and an oxygen line ran beneath her nose. Her wrists were swathed with plastic wristbands, her arms were stiff with IV lines, and one finger was clamped with a plastic tip connected to several beeping machines. I swallowed. She’s still Bachan, right? No big deal.

“Hi, Bachan. It’s me, Nanami,” I said, trying to smile.

“Hello,” she said politely, as if she was greeting an acquaintance. “How are you?”

“I’m good. How are you?” I was not good, but the words slipped out of my mouth.

“I’m fine, thank you.” That definitely wasn’t true. “What did you learn in school today?”

“Um, I didn’t go to school today. It’s Sunday.” Bachan’s face fell—I had embarrassed her. “Lately, we’ve been learning about atomic structure.” I would talk about anything, even my least favorite school subject, just to fill the awkward silence.

“That’s nice.”

I noticed an empty food tray beside her bed. “So, how’s the food here?”

“It’s fine.” She didn’t seem to have much to say.

I chewed on my lower lip, trying to think of another question to ask. Then a nurse walked in.

“She’s going to need a blood transfusion. Could you sign this paperwork?” She offered a clipboard and pen to Mom. The words at the bottom of the form—“patient is at risk of allergic reactions, fever, and death”—made me shiver. I wanted to cry out, tell Mom not to sign it, and tell the nurse Bachan didn’t need it, but it was already done. Mom passed the clipboard and pen back to the nurse. “Would you like to stay or leave? It takes about four hours.”

“I think we’ll head out, thanks.” Mom nodded to the nurse, then took my hand and walked briskly out of the room.

Fat, hot tears ran down my face as we silently drove home.

* * * * *

I blinked rapidly as the priest chanted the sutra. I wanted to believe my eyes were watering from the burning incense, but I knew it was because of who was in the casket. There, resplendent in a white kimono, lay Bachan, as still and as silent as the earth itself. She was surrounded by her favorite chopsticks, a pair of sandals, and coins for crossing the Sanzu-no-Kawa. She had everything she ever needed or loved—except the people she left behind. I should’ve asked her more, listened more, remembered more. I would’ve given anything for just five more minutes with her, but she was gone. I gulped as tears flowed like twin rivers down my cheeks.

I snapped out of the horrible vision and grabbed a tissue to wipe my tears. Get it together, Nanami! I pushed my worries about Bachan out of my head as I opened my desk drawer of craft supplies. Choosing a sunny yellow piece of construction paper, I carefully folded it in half. I ran my thumb over the crease, like Bachan showed me. Her boats always turned out better than mine when we folded origami while waiting for our food at Daikokuya.

I chose a black marker and began to write “I hope you feel better soon, Bachan!” on the front of the card. I could feel Bachan’s small, wrinkled hand over mine, guiding my pen as I practiced my calligraphy. No! I stopped abruptly, narrowly avoiding dropping a splotch of ink on the paper. This isn’t a calligraphy lesson, and I’m probably not going to have one for a long time. If ever! And thinking about it will just make things worse. I sighed and finished writing the sentiment.

I knew Bachan loved cute things, so I pulled out a sheet of kawaii stickers. She’d bought them for me at a shop on First Street during one of our Sunday afternoon walks. I took a deep breath, picked out a maneki-neko sticker, and placed it underneath the words. It seemed to be smiling as it held its paw up in a sign of good luck. I’d better write something inside. I flipped the card open. “Don’t let the blank canvas scare you. Let it inspire you! This is your masterpiece.” I remembered Bachan saying those words to me as I held the tiny scissors, unsure of how to prune her bonsai tree.

Get out of my head! I mentally screamed at the picture. As it faded away, my sudden anger melted into sadness. No, wait! Come back! I want to trim your bonsai tree with you again. I want to fold origami and practice calligraphy and go shopping in Little Tokyo and eat rainbow dango on the Village Plaza with you again! What happened to all our favorite little things? Tears welled up in my eyes again as I thought of Bachan, fragile and alone in her huge hospital bed. Please, please be brave, Bachan. I promise you’ll get better! I held on to my pen with a death grip as I wrote a few kind words inside the card. I blew on the ink to make sure it was dry before slipping the card into my bag for tomorrow. It’s a nice card, like those colorful band-aids Bachan used to put on my scrapes. Only this band-aid is trying to fix a broken heart.

* * * * *

“It’s nice to see you again, Bachan.” We were back at the hospital, where the bed was still huge, the machines were still beeping, and Bachan’s hospital gown was still falling off. I rummaged in my bag until I found the card. “I made you a card. There’s a maneki-neko on it for good luck.” I pulled it out and offered it to her with a weak smile.

“Thank you,” she said softly, jostling the pick lines in her arms as she took it. Her hands shook slightly as she opened it, but she beamed at the words inside. “It’s very pretty.”

“I’m glad you like it.” I felt like I was in kindergarten again, presenting my finger-painted art project to my mom.

Bachan tried to prop the card up on her bedside table, but she almost knocked over a full glass of water. I gently took the card from her hands, moved the glass, and placed the card where she could admire it.

“Thank you. That was very thoughtful.” Bachan paused. “Your thoughtfulness is one of the little things I love about you.”

Suddenly, I was flooded with the warmth and familiarity of her words. They were the magic words—our magic words. For the first time since Mom called 9-1-1, I felt… happy. Bachan’s eyes sparkled in a familiar way. Seconds later, the sparkle faded, her eyes clouded, and she slumped back against the pillows.

“I think she’s tired, sweetie. Let’s go home so she can get some rest.”

I nodded. It feels like Bachan is slipping away. I replayed the memory of what she’d said. Little things… Then suddenly, I had an idea—one that might bring her back to us.

“Mom, can we stop by Bachan’s apartment on the way home?”

* * * * *

Bachan lived in a small apartment in Little Tokyo, only a few minutes away from the places we loved to visit together. But now the rooms were empty, the dirty dishes were still in the sink, and Bachan’s bonsai tree had sprouted unruly leaves. This place felt frozen in time.

“Are you sure you want to be here, Nanami? You haven’t even told me what you’re looking for.” Mom studied my face as I stood in the living room, staring at Bachan’s favorite chair. It’s going to be alright. She’ll be back here watching Food Network in no time. And I desperately wanted—no, needed—to believe it was true.

“I’m fine, Mom. I just need to find a box of photos.” I turned away from Bachan’s chair and walked to the closet.

“Which box? Your bachan keeps tons of photos.” Mom had a point—Bachan used her vintage instant camera to take copious amounts of photos with all her family members.

“I’m just going to take a peek and see if I can find some photos of her with me.” I opened the closet door and peered inside. Boxes of photos were stacked almost to the ceiling. I scanned the labels, written in Bachan’s beautiful handwriting: ‘Okaasan & Otousan’, ‘Itoko-tachi’, ‘Nanami’. Bingo!

* * * * *

On our third visit to the hospital, I was carrying precious cargo: a shoebox covered in origami papers, pressed bonsai leaves, maneki-neko stickers, and receipts from Daikokuya. The people who passed us in the halls looked mystified by the package, but I knew someone who would understand it perfectly.

That someone was waiting for me in the same room, sitting in the same bed, and wearing the same perpetually askew hospital gown.

“Hi Bachan! Guess what I brought you today!” I held out the box, grinning at Bachan. My enthusiasm must have rubbed off on her—she seemed a bit excited.

“What is this?” She smoothed the blanket over her legs, inviting me to set the box in her lap.

“Open it and you’ll find out!” I couldn’t wait to see the look on her face. She carefully lifted off the lid to reveal a single sheet of paper. In my best calligraphy were the words: ‘All the little things I love about you’.

“You’re always telling me the little things you love about me, so I thought I’d tell you the little things I love about you,” I explained, stepping closer. Bachan’s cheeks flushed as she sat up alertly in bed. She took the paper out of the box and saw dozens of Polaroids she’d taken of us.

Some of the photos were recent and others were from my early years, but all of them had newly written captions. Bachan reached into the box and pulled out a photo of her and six-year-old-me sharing the last piece of manju. The caption read, ‘I love how freely you share.’

Bachan smiled warmly as she carefully set the photo on the bed. In the next picture she chose, she was showing me how to slice green onions. Below the photo, I’d written, ‘I love your amazing meals.’ Bachan was glowing now, full of joy, life, and, well, Bachan-ness!

“Hold that smile!” I told Bachan as I pulled her instant camera out of my bag. I leaned my head toward hers, gave a picture-worthy grin, and clicked the shutter. Like magic, the small photo inched its way out of the slot at the top and gently fell into Bachan’s hand. She watched, mesmerized, as the white slowly faded to reveal a picture of us. I took out a pen and carefully wrote along the bottom, I love your bravery. Then I placed the photo inside the box, with all the other snapshots of our memories.

Bachan’s eyes met mine, and at the same moment, we smiled.

* * * * *

Three weeks later, the chair in Bachan’s apartment was no longer empty. She was there, bathed in the last rays of fall sunlight. A chrome walker with tennis balls and rubber hand grips stood close to her. It seems out of place, but I guess things change.

My hands were warm from holding the smooth cup of green tea. Bachan had described the process to me in such loving detail that making the tea for us was easy. I made sure to write down all the steps in my notebook, where I had begun to collect her precious wisdom. I inhaled the earthy, sweet steam rising from my cup and peacefully closed my eyes.

A notification dinged on my phone, but I silenced it with a tap. Every moment with Bachan was precious, like autumn leaves floating on the wind. Beautiful, but delicate and fleeting. Bachan was staring out the window, watching people mingle on the Little Tokyo streets below. A small smile flickered on her lips.

“Home,” she said simply, and that said it all.

I reached out and placed my hand in hers. Bachan’s touch was gentle yet firm, just as it had always been. Some things were different now, but the little things had stayed the same. And the little things were what mattered the most.

* * * * *

Actor Chloe Madriaga reads “Little Things” by Madeline Thach. From the 11th Annual Imagine Little Tokyo Short Story Contest Awards Ceremony on June 1, 2024. Organized by the Little Tokyo Historical Society in partnership with JANM’s Discover Nikkei project.

* * * * *

*This is the winning story in the Youth category of the Little Tokyo Historical Society’s 11th Imagine Little Tokyo Short Story Contest.

© 2024 Madeline Thach