The Meadow 97 late. She died within weeks of the diagnosis. After reaching the shrine, she took a piece of wood and began to write a prayer in Japanese. She used the kanji that her grandmother taught her, remembering the long lessons while she memorized the stroke order of each character. Her grandmother guided her hand whenever Sakura struggled. One afternoon, she botched every character she tried. Soon, she and her grandmother were laughing as they erased the symbols before giving up for that afternoon to eat onigiri. No one could make onigiri like Obaachan. When they weren’t practicing kanji, she was teaching Sakura how to cook things like tonkatsu and yakitori or reading Doraemon manga together. After school, she finished her homework as fast as she could so that she could help Obaachan cook. The kitchen was always filled with the smells of her grandmother’s miso soup, fried tempura, or ramen. She could cook everything Japanese, but those dishes were Sakura’s and her brother’s favorites. She hung the wood on the board. She closed her eyes and bowed. Sakura took a deep breath to stop the sobs from coming. Not here. Not now. She walked to the central sanctuary where the petals swirled in the air, closed her eyes, and bowed. In the stillness, her prayers seemed to echo.
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