My brother Grant and his daughters cleaned out her apartment for the last time, trying to decide what goes to Goodwill, what to keep, what to pass on. What to sell. I suppose it will be like that for all of us one of these days, but I don't want to think about that, yet.
This bowl was given to my mother by her aunt, shortly after she married my father and immigrated to this country, so it's well over 50 years old, older than I, smiles. It has ridges like corduroy and a rice paddle. She used it to make Japanese pickles, the occasional sushi, but mostly it was safely tucked away on some high shelf where no harm could come to it; it was one of the few pieces of "home" that she owned.
Mother was surprised that I remembered the bowl, even more surprised that it was something that I wanted. The bowl has many meanings; it is a symbol of life, service, submissiveness and selflessness, but for both of us, it also means home.
