Carrots, Cabbage, Red Peppers || Rantaro Amami

Sobo's Dumplings

Carrots, cabbage, red peppers. The smell of minced garlic and cilantro. In one bowl, Rantaro's grandmother—Sobo—mixed the vegetables with a stream of soy sauce, egg, and sesame oil; on a neighboring cutting board, Rantaro divided the tofu into satiny chunks, making sure not to smash the delicate curds via careless cutting.

It was a dewy spring morning. Every day, Sobo woke Rantaro early to help with food preparations. Whenever Rantaro and his sisters visited Sobo, there was to be plenty to eat all day; Sobo made sure of it. She believed in spoiling her granddaughters, and in turn, she taught Rantaro how to care for his sisters in a way her son never did. With that unspoken fact in mind, Rantaro never argued nor complained; in fact, he found her help comforting, like a rare instance of maternal guidance in a life rather lacking in parental figures.

Shaping and filling the dumplings was Rantaro's favorite part. It was Sobo's, too: one could tell by the way she smiled and hummed, swaying like a lovelorn teen caught in a trance at the sight of her lover. Rantaro was just along for the ride, a mere extra in the scene of Sobo's daydreams, and he was okay with that. Being along for the ride was pleasant for him: getting to watch, witness, and explore, but staying ever out of harm's reach. Too often in life was Rantaro responsible for the others around him, and too often, getting involved was a choice that only put the ones closest to him in danger. Whether it was involvement with the police, involvement with peers at school, or getting too chatty with the barista when he got coffee, making strong connections and getting involved risked giving away too much information.

"Rantaro, when are you going to let a nice young lady into your life?"

The question caught Rantaro off guard. He hesitated, dough hanging from his fingertips. Sobo's innocent tone accompanied her obvious daydreams, and Rantaro imagined her thoughts: the first time Sobo and Sofu met, perhaps, or the first time Sofu met her parents. Sobo was always a lovebird and a flirt; she was also a gossiper, far too excited about and involved in the personal lives of her friends, children, and grandchildren. Rantaro supposed he should have expected she would ask at some point.

"I dunno, Babaa. Shouldn't I let fate decide?"

Sobo said nothing, but her silence vocalized her disappointment, the way she ceased her humming and slowed her work.

Rantaro took his grandmother's hand, and the two shared a moment: a moment to notice the aroma of chives, cilantro, garlic, and soy sauce; a moment to study how the sun filtered through the window and coated the dust in the air; a moment to appreciate that same air filling their lungs. It was a practice Sobo taught him long ago, and it was a tradition Rantaro passed along to his sisters whenever they got caught up in their emotions.

When he let go, she began humming and swaying once more.

To tell the truth, Rantaro never thought about boys or girls in that way. He was busy vying to understand the relationships and stories of other people—that, or his attention was demanded by his sisters, who gave him all the purpose and company he needed; he never felt it necessary to seek out anyone else when the people he had around him were already enough. Besides, he wasn't lying when he spoke about fate. Deep down, he believed in natural occurrences, going with the flow, and "crossing that bridge when we get there." In the end, wasn't that all anyone could do?