When I got home, it was past midnight. My mother was in the kitchen cooking appetizers for Baba’s funeral reception. She offered me a sampler plate without a word. As I sat at the counter, I realized I had barely touched my dinner.
“These little cakes are delicious,” I said. “Mango?”
“Mrs. Kishimoto’s recipe,” she said. “There are several other trays in her fridge. We’re expecting a big turnout.”
“Do you need any help?” I asked.
“Maybe earlier. Not now. Just about done.”
Part of me wanted to run back to my room, though I knew I should stay with my mother. Maybe it was because I felt like I needed to be there for her. After all this time, her immovable expression of disgust and disappointment still held power over me. She poured us each a glass of water and sat across from me.
“I miss her,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” I fidgeted with the photo of the ultrasound that was in my purse, debating whether to get it over with and tell her now.
“You broke Baba’s heart,” my mother said. “You broke all of our hearts.” I wanted to tell her about the envelope of money and Baba’s note, but I let her have this one for now, reenacting the old dance that allowed us to have a relationship. I whispered sorry again, that I knew it didn’t mean much. I said that there was so much she might never understand. When a tear fell from my cheek, my mother left to fetch a box of tissues from the bathroom. I placed the photo of the ultrasound on the counter as she handed me one.
“We’ve done enough of that,” she said, then suddenly looked closer at the photo. She stared at the life growing inside of me and poured herself another glass of water. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad or even a little surprised. Something had changed, though; a new kind of gravity cemented her to the kitchen stool, prevented her from hugging her pregnant daughter. “Well,” she said. “Boy or girl?”
“We don’t know,” I said. “We want it to be a surprise.”
“We thought you’d be a boy. One of the reasons your father took you to all those soccer games when you were little. Think part of him still imagined you’d fill that role if he tried hard enough. Life is always easier for boys.”
“We’ll be happy with a boy or a girl.”
My mother nodded and stood up, pausing as she passed me. She looked at the altar in the hallway, flickering with LED tea lights. For a moment, I thought she might congratulate me or hug me or do anything vaguely resembling motherly love.
“We’re remembering her tomorrow. Celebrating all that my mother built. I expect you up early,” my mother said. “Remember to pray before going to sleep.”
Upstairs, I climbed into bed, inserted the second chip into the VR visor, and found myself surrounded by colorful stars exploding in the night sky—a summer fireworks festival on the banks of the Shinano River. Baba, Tamami, and my mother sat on a blanket, looking up and eating yakitori while my father recorded the moment. Baba wore her favorite navy-blue polyester dress with tiny white flowers, raised her hands in the air, and clapped with each display. As the other families came and went, they paid their respects to Baba, told her they missed seeing her walking around town. Even Miki and her family stopped by, asked Baba to send me their regards in America.
“She’s doing very well,” my mother said, a lie. At that point, they had barely heard a word from me.
Baba said nothing; she only smiled, the canyons of her face filled with sadness and truth. Did she think I had forgotten home? When the next explosion came, Baba did not clap. She stared at the dark water, reflecting the supernova above. I wondered what I’d been doing at that exact moment, what pressing matter had kept me from picking up the phone and telling my family: I love you. I’m sorry. This is something I have to do. I don’t think anyone in the neighborhood was good at having important conversations with the younger generation. The elders had come to an understanding while recovering from a global pandemic that erected funerary towers into our skies. Nobody asked us what we wanted. Nobody questioned the new tradition. We were grave friends and that was that.
The soulful ballads of Misora Hibari, Baba’s favorite enka singer, woke me the next morning. I could hear crowds chattering outside, trucks beeping in reverse as they delivered tables and chairs and flowers. My parents had closed off half the street with orange cones they’d borrowed from the local elementary school gym teacher. From my window, I could see the Fujita sisters smoking on the outskirts of the commotion, scowling. Everyone except Uncle Michihiro, who wore a T-shirt and an ill-fitting sports coat, had donned a vibrant yukata—pinks and purples and oranges with ornate floral patterns. My mother barked orders to the delivery drivers while some of the uncles constructed pop-up tents. Mrs. Kishimoto and the priest, who had come all the way from Osaka, arranged flowers on the reception lunch tables. At the center of the affair: a large portrait of Baba, surrounded by white chrysanthemums （the traditional choice） and sunflowers （Baba’s favorite）， and beside this lay Baba herself on a long metal tray beneath a plastic cover, as if her ashes were part of some buffet. Chopsticks rested on top for the family to use to pick out the remaining bones. The large urn, a nearly three-meter-tall chrome egg, sat on a wooden cradle that my great-grandfather had carved—and etched all over the egg were the names of everyone in the neighborhood who had already contributed their remains. I imagined the ashes of my aunties and uncles, my grandfather, Jiji, all layered on top of the others inside the pod, a stratum of our family.