Ruth Ozeki

I’d gotten plenty of practice at school imagining this kind of thing happening to my own body so it didn’t bother me that much, but the idea of someone hurting my old Jiko was brand new to my mind, and it made me feel like throwing up.

I was trying to calculate my chances of fighting off a dozen yanki bitches with serious sticks, when all I had was my pathetic little supapawa!

“Bad girls. Juvenile delinquents. They were saying stuff. I thought they were going to beat us up.”

“Oh no,” Jiko said, shaking her head. “They were all dressed so nicely. Such cheerful colors.”

“I lost. The ocean won.”

She smiled. “Was it a good feeling?”

“Mm,” I said.

“That’s good,” she said. “Have another rice ball?”

It’s a typical Jiko comment, all about pointing to what she calls the not-two120 nature of existence when I’m just trying to watch some cute guys surfing. I know better than to argue with her, because she always wins, but it’s like a knock-knock joke, where you have to say “Who’s there?” so the other person can tell you the punch line.

See what I mean?

I know you can’t hold on to water, still I gripped her fingers a little more tightly to keep her from leaking away.

sadly, earthquakes result in collateral damage, and often the catfish is filled with remorse. In one poignant drawing, seppuku namazu, the Suicide Catfish, slices open his stomach to atone for all the deaths he’s caused. Gold coins pour from the wide slit in his belly.

only I was Nattchan, the Super Nun, with abilities bestowed upon me by Lord Buddha that included battling the waves, even if I always lost, and being able to withstand astonishing amounts of pain and hardship.

“Yes,” she said, patting me on the arm. “Plenty of good food for mosquitoes.”