Bachelor of Arts
Settling: They left Japan and came to Colorado, got land. Typhoid came down the mountain stream, they drove a truck to Indiana, the black cast-iron pans swinging from the sides. A stillborn child, a hard winter. And the house so cold the water froze in the pitchers at night. Sunlight in the catalpa leaves, breeze through the asparagus fronds. My grandmother puts on her bonnet, in the garden the heat rises around her. I stand by the window, waiting for the hummingbird, looking through a stack of brittle yellow magazines that open from the back. A heavy maroon bathrobe, stiff and prickly, hanging beside my father!s sport shirts. He takes it out, puts his finger through a moth hole, says: "This belonged to my uncle, the one who died in California in a concentration camp."
Ikeda, Patricia Y., "Called Back" (1975). Honors Papers. 741.