Secret Keeping Sakura – Chapter 3

MIEKO

I have no idea what I’m doing or why, just that my favorite cherry tree has sent me on a mission to get to know my mother better. To the local grocer in town, of all places.

But if Mom had wanted me to know her better, why didn’t we spend more time together when she was alive? She was a great mother for sure. I had no complaints. She worked a lot, and we saw little of each other outside of school, but she was liberal and easy. We rarely fought. But I wouldn’t say we were close either. The more I think about it as I walk into town, my sweater wrapped tight around me against the cool spring breeze, the more I realize Mom was never personal with me. We talked of work or the neighbors, but not our thoughts or dreams. Maybe I didn’t know her at all.

The grocer is not far from Mom’s home, an eight minute walk, and when I slide open the door, a short, stout woman is rearranging vegetables in the center aisle. I used to stop here on my way home from school to buy ingredients for dinner. Mom and I had a routine. I arrived home first, chopped vegetables and started rice, and she showed up later to cook everything. I was always studying at the kitchen table when she arrived home, tired and gray from working from dawn till dusk.

The woman looks up and smiles at me. Her name pops into my head, Watame. She bought this grocery after I left for college.

“Mieko-san,” she says, bowing. “I hope you’re feeling okay. It was good to see you this morning despite the circumstances.”

Yes. I saw her at the funeral this morning, though the whole time blurs together. “Thank you for coming to my mother’s funeral,” I respond, bowing back. “It was good of you to come.”

“Nonsense. It was my duty. I miss your mother already.” She frowns and returns to the vegetables. “She was such a good person. Such a shame for her to go so suddenly.”

My voice catches in my throat, so I clear it and press on. “I’m here to run an errand. I heard my mom picked up produce from here and donated it. Do you know anything about this?”

The cherry tree was not specific about my mission. It just said, “Go to the grocer and ask her about produce for donation. Your mother did this almost every day.”

“Yes!” Her face brightens in a smile as her eyes widen. “I set aside bruised or damaged produce, and your mother always bought it from me after work.” She wipes off her hands on a towel and beckons me to follow her into the back of the store. Against the far wall is a tall, sturdy bag overflowing with carrots, onions, greens, and potatoes. “This is 1500 yen worth.”

I reach into my bag and pull out my wallet, finding the bills to pay for vegetables. Watame tries to refuse the money, but I insist and push it at her. “If this is what Mom did, then this is what I’ll do.”

“I usually put it on a tab and she pays at the end of the month, though,” she says, worrying the bills between her fingers.

“Then put that towards the bill, and I’ll take care of it when the time comes.” I heft the bag onto my shoulder. Now what?

“Well, Chie-san will be happy to see you,” Watame says, leading me out to the front.

“And Chie-san is?…” I ask, drawing out the words so I hope she clues me in. I feel like I’m on a scavenger hunt.

She points down the street at the far corner. “She runs the ramen shop. She’s your mom’s first stop… or was her first stop.” Tears cloud her eyes. “I’m sorry again for your loss.”

I would cry, but I’m all dried out, and I’m ready to get moving again. My feet ache, even in my walking shoes, and I’m beat after a long day. I want to go back home, soak in a hot bath, and drink saké until I fall asleep.

I bow and leave, crossing the street, and ducking under the curtains at the ramen shop. The sign on the door reads “CLOSED,” but there’s movement inside, so I open the door.

“Welcome,” a woman calls out, and I recognize her from this morning too. This must be Chie. “Ah! Mieko-san, I… I wasn’t expecting you or the vegetables.” She sets aside a large metal ladle, murmuring to the two men eating at the counter. “Please, please sit.” She gestures to another spot at the counter and holds out her hands for the bag of vegetables. I give them to her and massage my shoulder where the handles bit into my skin.

I sit and nod to the two men next to me. “Hello, hello. How’s your ramen?”

“Ahhhh,” one man says, sighing and rubbing his full belly. “Chie-san makes the best in town.” The other man nods his approval as he slurps up noodles. Both are ragged around the edges, beards and wild hair, coats patched in more than one spot.

“It’s a little early for dinner, though, no?” I glance at the clock. 15:30. It’s barely evening and I’m ready for bed.

Chie nods as she empties the bag onto her counter behind the ramen bar. “This is half-price senior hour. Your mom came up with the idea about eight years ago, right?” She nods at the man sitting next to me, and he nods back before slurping soup. “Your mom provided extra vegetables and fish, and I opened early for seniors to eat before the evening crowd.”

Hmmm, this makes sense. Mom always had a soft spot for the elderly. She often volunteered in retirement homes when I was a kid and made meals for the elderly couple up the street from us. A blossom of warmth grows in my chest. After a long day at work, Mom would do this? If they started this eight years ago, it was before she had retired.

“Let me make you a bowl of ramen,” Chie says, pulling out a bowl and ladling out a serving before I can protest. Into the bowl goes soup, noodles, greens, vegetables, fish, and a few slices of pork. I wasn’t hungry when I walked in, but my stomach constricts and hollers for the noodles as soon as the bowl is placed in front of me.

“Thank you.” I bow over my food and give thanks before digging in.

As is usual in most ramen shops, the slurping of noodles takes over, and my mind wanders as I watch Chie chop the vegetables I brought. She places most of them in plastic containers, but adds several to a soup stock she has boiling on the side.

“So, Mom subsidized this ‘senior discount hour?’” I set down my chopsticks and let the ramen settle into my stomach. The picture of Mom in my head, the Mom I didn’t know, is focusing, though I have to squint my eyes to even see her outline. To me, she was always the tired, overworked Mom who made dinner, helped me with my homework, and gave me a kiss on the head each night at bedtime.

“Yep. I saw her every morning before school. She spent an hour at the wharf just before sunrise, gathered fish there, vegetables at the grocery, and brought them to me. I cook in here in the morning and open at 15:00 for the seniors and 16:00 for normal customers.”

Slipping the slice of pork into my mouth, I melt into a puddle of happiness. This is good, as good as any I’ve had in Osaka.

“Thank you,” both men say, as they rise from their seats, place their bowls on the countertop, bow, and leave.

“See you tomorrow,” Chie calls out to them as they shut the door behind them. “Your mom talked about you an awful lot. Said she was proud of you for working so hard in Osaka, but she always hoped you’d come home more often.”

The guilt from beyond the grave envelops me again, and I’m twenty kilos heavier with it.

“Mom never mentioned anything to me,” I say, not a hint of bitterness in my voice. Honestly, every time I came home she was happy to see me, proud of my accomplishments, gossiped about the town, ate a lot of food, and sent me back to Osaka with a smile on her face. I wish she had said something! Maybe she had planned to once she got older, but the stroke took her too early.

“She would often say, ‘Next time Mieko is home, I plan to bring her by,’ and then she wouldn’t and say, ‘There’s just never enough time!’” Chie smiles warmly at me. “She wanted you all to herself.” She chuckles and stirs her soup.

I finish up the soup in silence, wondering about all the unsaid secrets or wishes my mother never got to tell me — all the things I never asked of because I had no idea they even existed.

When I’m done, I place the bowl on the countertop and thank Chie for the meal. “It was delicious. I’m glad I came here.”

“You can come back anytime. Every day, if you want. I’m not sure how I’ll manage the senior discount hour without your Mom’s help, but we’ll figure it out.”

At the door, I glance around the ramen shop. Mom’s spirit is in this room, I can feel it. She’s hovering over the bubbling soup, serving food to the elderly, and cleaning dishes when the meals are over. There are people here that depended on her and her kindness, and now she’s gone to them as well as to me.

I leave the restaurant more confused than I have ever been. Who was this woman I called my mother?