Sumi stared out the window, gnarled fingers wrapped around her steaming cup of green tea. The house was silent except for the occasional jingle of dog tags as the family dog adjusted his position on the couch. The adults were at work and the children were at school.
Again, she was alone. Sixty-six years since her mother’s death when she was twelve and again, when she left her birthplace in Japan. Sixty-six long years alone.
Sumi had been a treasured only child, spirited and determined. Her mother clothed her in beautiful silk kimonos for special occasions. She was fed with the freshest seafood and produce arranged artistically on exquisite porcelain dishes. Mother engaged masters of calligraphy and haiku to instruct Sumi, and she was also introduced to the traditional Japanese tea ceremony.
It was then that she received the cup which became her constant companion in a sea of change. The sage green cup, the beautiful chawan, reminded Sumi of the weeping willow tree branches that arched over the peaceful pond in her father’s rock garden. They had become her hidden refuge after Father remarried and Sumi’s “happily ever after” became a nightmare.
Father was a highly esteemed city government official in Hiroshima. After Sumi’s mother died, Father was pursued as an eligible husband, and within a year and a half, Sumi had a stepmother and two stepsisters. A Cinderella story in the Land of the Rising Sun.
Not that Sumi knew about Cinderella in early 1900s Japan. The stories that she was told were ancient legends about samurai and mythical creatures. One tale which she remembered was that her own family was descended from the samurai class, who were highly respected in feudal Japan.
After Father remarried, his life revolved around his work and his new family. Sumi felt neglected and alone, having been the centre of her world until then. Her stepmother wasn’t cruel to her, but she took advantage of her as the older sister, or “o-nee-san.” Taking care of her little stepsisters became her role, just as her stepmother assumed her own new position as mistress of the house.
Occasionally, Sumi found ways to escape by reading under the willow trees and dreaming about exploring other places, anything to get away from the misery of her existence. The tea ceremony was also a respite, restoring calm and peacefulness to Sumi. Clasping her special chawan (cup) and sipping the hot ocha (green tea) always soothed her.
When Sumi was eighteen, she left her home and married a Japanese man who was twice her age. He was a scholar who, like Sumi, was seeking a new life in a new land. Although he was from a lower class, they married and planned to travel to Canada.
Her father was angry when she married below her samurai class, but she did not care about such things. She just wanted to get away and have adventures. She did go back to see her father before she left and retrieved her treasured teacup.
Sumi and her husband settled in Vancouver, started a newspaper, and established a Japanese language school. They also had a grocery store and became quite wealthy. Sumi was finally happy. They had five children, four girls and a little brother.
Sumi didn’t feel alone or lonely while raising her family, but she still cherished her quiet, reflective moments with her chawan filled with hot green tea.
When the Second World War broke out, Japanese Canadians were sent to internment camps away from the West Coast. Families were forced to leave their homes and most of their possessions, only allowed to take what they themselves could carry. Sumi was devastated but didn’t want to part from her cup. She wrapped it carefully in a cotton nightgown and packed it in one of her two suitcases.
The war years spent in the interior of British Columbia, away from the coast, were years of sorrow and of pain. The disruption in their lives had been like a physical blow to a whole community’s sense of self.
Sumi’s husband had become involved in trying to set up community events and was rarely home in their shared and shabby wooden cabin. Their children and housework kept her busy. Sumi was often alone and lonely. She missed her life in Vancouver and longed for the comfortable home she and her husband had created for their family. Another nightmare, once again.
Sumi would often gently remove her cup from the nightgown where it was nestled in her suitcase. As she revealed its pale green surface, Sumi cradled the treasure in her hands. Her tears flowed as she boiled water for the hot cup of tea that reminded her of peacefulness and comfort.
Many years had now passed. Sumi was a widow and her children were grown. They lived together in a city where they settled after the war—a city that had become home after the government would not allow them to return to Vancouver.
They were happy and life was good, but the nightmare had never really ended. Yes, there had been fleeting moments of joy and fulfilment when she lived in Vancouver with her husband and raised her wonderful children, but that had all been taken away after the war.
Would Sumi ever feel special again, like she had when her mother had loved and pampered her? Would she always experience that sense of rejection and loneliness that her father and his new family had made her feel? Would the shame and sadness of false accusations and prejudice follow her until the day she left this world?
Sumi didn’t know the answers to those questions. She shrugged her shoulders and held out her hands. Shikata ga nai! It can’t be helped. Words of acceptance, harmony, and moving forward.
Sumi stared out the window, gnarled fingers wrapped around her steaming chawan of ocha, and felt peace. The only sound was the family dog’s tongue, lapping water from the cracked saucer on the kitchen floor.
© 2025 Deborah Ishii
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