And in that instant, as she stared into the mirror, she realized that she didn’t know who she was anymore. Somewhere in the journey, her soul had turned, but she had kept walking onward, without it.
She was old by then, just turning 65, a grandmother and wife. Faded and soft and folded with wisps of graying hair falling in her eyes. Laugh lines at their corners. Dressed monochromatically, the fabric loosely draping over her thin frame.
People would say that she was too old. Her time of change had passed. No use of trying to alter things anymore.
It did occur to Susan to believe this. But she didn’t.
*****
On the day she made the discovery, she had been at the Mississippi, walking with the children along the color streaked river bank. She had gripped her gray sweater when the autumn air had nipped at her skin. The family was out to celebrate the promotion of her son, Juro Hayashi—he had been promoted to vice president at the bank, albeit there were many—and she had been proud.
The Hayashi family and friends’ cars pooled into the small parking lot like the water hesitantly dripping out of a plant with too much water. Blankets dotted the river bank with a long picnic table as the center. The children banded together unhesitantly, moving as one rambunctious, giggly group, yet the adults stayed separate. They sat on their blankets alone and in pairs, rearranging their belongings, searching for the softest ground, the most direct sunlight, and meandering through the group in their moody Hayashi Way. A couple complained of the weather, the uncle was sitting under a tree loudly taking a business call on his cell, and the sisters attempted to tan their fair skin.
And what would Juro think? He would be left believing that not one of the people closest to him paid any means to his accomplishments.
And he would be right.
Not that they behaved any differently under other circumstances.
Juro sat mostly alone on his blanket, because Aina kept flitting elsewhere. As the oldest and prettiest sister she drifted from blanket to blanket, bobbing down to place seeds into the family’s ears.
Dropping phrases like “worked so hard” not really. Or: “at least say congratulations”
The first sister suddenly became very invested in the evenness of her blanket. The second turned away as if not hearing.
Susan—who had earned her living as a motivator, artist and Juro’s mother—felt she had no other option than to loudly clap her hands together and call out, “All right, everyone!”
Hesitantly, they turned. She seized a large bouncy ball from under the table and held it up. It was bigger than the bouncy ball you used to play four square with when you were a kid. A beach ball then; undoubtedly the property of one of the older boys who were now wrestling in the grass near the riverbank—but it didn’t matter to Susan. She had never been the sporty type, she’d have much rather draw with sidewalk chalk.
Still: “Time for a game everybody” she called out “Juro? Aina? Come on now! We’ll say those trees are the goal and the parking lot and river the boundaries. Juro move this log to mark center. Does anyone have anything to use as the other goal?”
They groaned complaisantly yet she was persistent. “All right, up everybody! Get up, we gotta make room for food before we eat!”
In some gift from a god, they begrudgingly began to get up and form a grumbling group at the area to which she had gestured. She then turned to the group of trees that were turning colors and jogged over. “Yosh!” she called out, “we’re organizing a soccer game!”
