In Tokyo in the early '90s, my mother was about to head home when a closening typhoon pressed her to wait out the poor weather at another bar. There, she met an American man, a mutual friend of her friend, and exchanged business cards with him out of courtesy. That Thursday, she received flowers at work with a note: “Happy Thursday.” This strange, slightly intrusive gesture led to a relationship between my parents.

For years, my grandmother opposed my mother’s relationship, shaped by fears from her experiences during WWII. Her sisters had moved to Kyushu, while she remained on Tokunoshima, under U.S. administration until 1953. Though there were more foreigners in Tokyo by then, she had never met an American until my father visited, hoping to reassure her that their engagement wouldn’t lead to the same kind of separation.

In 2016, my family moved to Los Angeles. By late August, my grandmother learned of a cancer in her body that could not be dispelled, and her skin tinged with a dark yellow. I recorded awkward backyard videos for her to watch in the hospital, suddenly bashful before a woman whose eyes once held mine so easily. We flew to be with her before her sickness took her.

My grandfather gave me her hanten, the winter robe she’d wear when resting. He had a matching one in blue. The fabric possessed her scent before illness touched it, and I held onto this as we returned to Los Angeles. I still do today, letting myself fall into the fabric when I yearn for her forgiveness and tender presence. 

– Marieka Possman

Relationship:  Im/migrant Im/migrant