Returning Home

Recently, I lost someone very special to me. My grandmother, Mitsue Yokota passed away on July 10 following complications. She lived a full 95 years of life and prior to her passing, returned from a trip to Vegas on Friday, went to the bon dance on Saturday and fell ill on Sunday. I carry her name as my middle name and I couldn't be anymore proud of that. While waiting in the ICU for doctors to let us know if she was strong enough to have the operation done, I wrote this poem. At first I was filled with anger and pain, why would someone take my grandmother from me? But then I remembered that by leaving us, she was no longer in pain, no longer tethered down by worldly needs and no longer just a human. She could watch over us from afar and guide us from there. So this poem reflects on the change of emotions, from anger and grief to acceptance and peace.

Returning Home

The smell of dust and warm wood fills my nose

Your house always got so hot during these balmy summer months

I curl my toes in your fuzzy brown carpet.

I always liked that carpet

When it was vacuumed,

Thin triangles would appear.

But no longer, no more

There is no warm dusty smell

Only the sharp sterile smell of antiseptic

Polished linoleum floors reflect the stark fluorescent light

There is no furry brown rug to curl my toes in

This is not your home.

The neighbor’s dogs bark incessantly,

Night, day, dawn, dusk

His wind chimes rattle with the slightest gust

How do you combat this problem?

Shoot the dogs with a water hose of course.

Oh, and scold them in Japanese.

But no longer, no more

There are no barking dogs or singing chimes

Only the monotone beep of machines

The steady drip of the IV

The rasping of the ventilator

This is not your home.

You made friends with everyone you met:

Sharing coffee with the janitors,

Making small talk with security guards,

Giving mangos to your neighbors,

Chatting with the principal,

Everyone loved you.

But no longer, no more

You have nurses who assist you

But you cannot speak to them,

Not with tubes 1, 3 and 6

There is no one to share mangos with

This is not your home.

You would always tell me how you never watched TV

Instead you would do your word finds

Filling book after book.

Playing solitaire and surreptitiously checking the facedown cards,

I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone that you were cheating.

It was our little secret.

But no longer, no more

You can’t do your word finds

Or play your games of solitaire

Not with restraints holding your arms down

And sedatives leaking into your veins.

This is not your home.

You’re in pain now,

You can’t speak to us anymore

But you can hear us when we speak

You try to show that you’re listening

With a squeeze of my hand or a slight nod

It kills me to see you like this.

But no longer, no more

You cannot respond to us

You cannot hear us

Lying on the too-neat hospital bed

Hooked up to machines

This is not your home.

I no longer trust myself to speak

My vision is blurred through a veil of tears

I try to speak cheerfully

But I choke up in the middle

Lowering my head so that my tears don’t fall on you

Gripping your hand and wishing I could speak to you again

But no longer, no more

You’re not in pain anymore

Not being kept alive by machine

You are with your parents again

You are with Grandpa again

You’ve finally returned home.

Rest in Peace Grandma

July 10, 2013

You are so loved

You will be missed

And in our hearts always.