Sacramento. sunday night, in my old room, with the glow stars still on the ceil…

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{
 "$type": "n_type_journal_entry",
 "id": "n_journal_2025_02_16",
 "createdAt": "1739745600000",
 "date": "2025-02-16T22:40:00.000Z",
 "body": "Sacramento. sunday night, in my old room, with the glow stars still on the ceiling. the funeral was yesterday. I want to get the week down before it turns into a story I tell.\n\ntuesday. Hana picked me up at the airport and we didn't say anything until the freeway and then she said \"he asked for you\" and I said \"I know, mom told me\" and she said \"no, before that. all week. he kept asking if you had the paper.\" I didn't know what that meant until later.\n\nthe house was full of food and aunties. Obaachan was in the kitchen, at the counter, peeling a daikon very slowly, and she looked up and said \"you're thin\" and went back to peeling. I stood next to her and peeled the next one. that's how we did it all week. she'd peel, I'd peel, and about every tenth thing she'd say something about him, to the vegetables.\n\nwednesday and thursday were the photo boards. mom had six shoeboxes. there he is at nineteen at the port with the one suitcase. there he is in front of the repair shop on Tenth with his arms crossed, in the grey coat with his name on it. there are almost none of him and Obaachan together because one of them was always holding the camera. dad did the program on the computer and kept changing the font and mom finally said \"Doug. he would not care about the font,\" and dad said \"I know. that's why I have to.\"\n\nwednesday night Hana and I were sent to find his good watch and we found the box. flat, under their bed, the kind shirts come in. every drawing I ever sent him. the birthday cards I made. the heron print from the first zine fair. the persimmon tree I mailed in december was on top, so he'd put it in the box and then taken it out again to put on the wall, because there was a pinhole in each corner. every one had a date on the back in pencil in his handwriting. the earliest is 2003. I was five. it's a brown shape with legs. on the back: \"heron. Theo. May 2003.\" Hana sat down on the floor and I sat down next to her and we went through all of them. a hundred and twelve. he'd numbered them.\n\nthere was a sheet of the paper in there too. the paper he gave me in 2016, the good stuff, that I've carried to four apartments and never used because nothing I was about to draw seemed worth it. he'd kept one sheet back. on it, in his ink, very small in the corner: three persimmons. nothing else. the rest of the sheet empty. like he started it and decided the paper was too good for him too.\n\nthe funeral. the temple was full, people standing at the back. men from the shop who must be eighty themselves. the incense, and the chanting that I don't understand and know by heart. when it was my turn I read what I'd written. I got the laugh at the mailbox. I got through the screws and the paper. I looked at Obaachan at the line about the radiators and she was nodding, and holding up four fingers in her lap where only I could see.\n\nI did not get through \"I will keep counting.\" I stopped for a while. nobody minded. Kofi was there, he drove up from Oakland, he was in the third row in a suit I've never seen and he just looked at me until I could go on.\n\nat the lunch afterward an old man I didn't know took my hand in both of his and said \"your grandfather fixed my television in 1974 and would not take money because my wife was sick.\" there were a lot of those. he never told us any of them.\n\ntoday Obaachan came into my room with something wrapped in a furoshiki. the persimmon painting from the hall, the real one, from 1994, three fruit on a branch with his red seal. she said \"he wanted you to have this one. he said you'd know which one.\" I said I can't take it off your wall. she said \"I have him on every wall. take it.\"\n\nI asked her about the paper. she said he'd been saying for a week, \"does Theo have the paper,\" and she thought he meant did I have enough. I think he meant: have you used it yet.\n\nI fly back wednesday.\n"
}

personas/young-renter/records/journal-2025.yaml:71

- id: journal-2025-02-16
  kind: journal_entry
  about: jiichan
  date: 2025-02-16 22:40
  body: |
    Sacramento. sunday night, in my old room, with the glow stars still on the ceiling. the funeral was yesterday. I want to get the week down before it turns into a story I tell.

    tuesday. Hana picked me up at the airport and we didn't say anything until the freeway and then she said "he asked for you" and I said "I know, mom told me" and she said "no, before that. all week. he kept asking if you had the paper." I didn't know what that meant until later.

    the house was full of food and aunties. Obaachan was in the kitchen, at the counter, peeling a daikon very slowly, and she looked up and said "you're thin" and went back to peeling. I stood next to her and peeled the next one. that's how we did it all week. she'd peel, I'd peel, and about every tenth thing she'd say something about him, to the vegetables.

    wednesday and thursday were the photo boards. mom had six shoeboxes. there he is at nineteen at the port with the one suitcase. there he is in front of the repair shop on Tenth with his arms crossed, in the grey coat with his name on it. there are almost none of him and Obaachan together because one of them was always holding the camera. dad did the program on the computer and kept changing the font and mom finally said "Doug. he would not care about the font," and dad said "I know. that's why I have to."

    wednesday night Hana and I were sent to find his good watch and we found the box. flat, under their bed, the kind shirts come in. every drawing I ever sent him. the birthday cards I made. the heron print from the first zine fair. the persimmon tree I mailed in december was on top, so he'd put it in the box and then taken it out again to put on the wall, because there was a pinhole in each corner. every one had a date on the back in pencil in his handwriting. the earliest is 2003. I was five. it's a brown shape with legs. on the back: "heron. Theo. May 2003." Hana sat down on the floor and I sat down next to her and we went through all of them. a hundred and twelve. he'd numbered them.

    there was a sheet of the paper in there too. the paper he gave me in 2016, the good stuff, that I've carried to four apartments and never used because nothing I was about to draw seemed worth it. he'd kept one sheet back. on it, in his ink, very small in the corner: three persimmons. nothing else. the rest of the sheet empty. like he started it and decided the paper was too good for him too.

    the funeral. the temple was full, people standing at the back. men from the shop who must be eighty themselves. the incense, and the chanting that I don't understand and know by heart. when it was my turn I read what I'd written. I got the laugh at the mailbox. I got through the screws and the paper. I looked at Obaachan at the line about the radiators and she was nodding, and holding up four fingers in her lap where only I could see.

    I did not get through "I will keep counting." I stopped for a while. nobody minded. Kofi was there, he drove up from Oakland, he was in the third row in a suit I've never seen and he just looked at me until I could go on.

    at the lunch afterward an old man I didn't know took my hand in both of his and said "your grandfather fixed my television in 1974 and would not take money because my wife was sick." there were a lot of those. he never told us any of them.

    today Obaachan came into my room with something wrapped in a furoshiki. the persimmon painting from the hall, the real one, from 1994, three fruit on a branch with his red seal. she said "he wanted you to have this one. he said you'd know which one." I said I can't take it off your wall. she said "I have him on every wall. take it."

    I asked her about the paper. she said he'd been saying for a week, "does Theo have the paper," and she thought he meant did I have enough. I think he meant: have you used it yet.

    I fly back wednesday.