Numba One

I recognize the short bridge of my nose in my Grandma’s face, the way her eyes curve into rainbows when she smiles. We sit in her tiny apartment huddled together on the loveseat I napped on as a child. The cushions still smell like incense.

"You and Grandma…close. My numba one," she says in that familiar singsong voice, the unmistakable blend of pidgin and Japanese peppered on her consonants.

I watch as the invisible wave washes over her, like clockwork, heavy and destructive as it pulls the memory right out of her.

She smiles politely, familiar rainbows. "What’s your name?"