Nagoya, Aichi, Japan
When I met you for the first time at the hospital, I couldn’t keep back my tears. As the first granddaughter, you came to us, but with a serious heart defect. A tube of oxygen in your nose, a long instillation on your foot, scars from three major operations in six months. I cautiously held you in my arms. You gazed at me, and then your dark sparkling eyes spoke to my heart.
I bought a present, the first present for you, a small stuffed caterpillar. I bent its funny face to you, saying “Hello!” The caterpillar bobbed his head to you, saying “Hello, again!” You smiled, stretching your tiny arm to try to grab it, and . . .
I put a caterpillar
in your coffin