Ikue The Story Teller

What I look forward to most whenever our extended family gets together is listening to Ikue’s stories. We last gathered two months ago for New Year’s, though somehow it already feels like ages ago.

Ikue can imitate just about any voice—a little boy, a fearless young hero, or the sounds of animals so vividly that they seem real. She can have us doubled over with laughter at her funny stories, trembling at her scary ones, or close to tears over her dramas. More than that, her stories always inspire us to become better people.

Today’s gathering is especially important because it’s Ikue’s birthday. I can’t wait to hear her tell a story. She must have prepared something special.

After dinner, everyone will gather in the storytelling room beside the back garden. Ikue isn’t the only storyteller in our family. Long before her, others in our family had become storytellers too. Some became painters, musicians, or artists of other kinds. In our family, we say it’s in the blood rather than talent. Naturally, this house has other rooms set aside for our artists.

Ikue will sit in a comfortable chair in front of us while the rest of us sit on the floor according to age. The youngest children sit in the front row, their older siblings behind them, while the parents sit along the sides. The seating never changes, even if one or two of the younger children happen to be much bigger than the older ones. The only exceptions are me and the toddlers, who have to sit on their parents’ laps.

Unfortunately, an upset stomach made me late. Even so—and even though I’m not the youngest—no one could stop me from sitting right at the front. Besides, Ikue would insist that I sit there. After all, I’m her favorite cherry blossom.

As I approached the storytelling room, I could faintly hear Ikue’s voice. I caught fragments of the story: a dragon, a magical pond, and a giant.

My dear Ikue, why didn’t you wait for me?

I slid the door open. The moment she saw me, Ikue stopped in the middle of her story. Every head turned toward me. She jumped down from her tall chair and ran over.

“Grandma!” she cried, wrapping me in a warm hug. “I thought you’d already gone to bed. Dad said we shouldn’t bother you.”

I glanced at Harue, my third son, who was sitting with the other parents.

“Happy seventh birthday, Ikue. I’m sorry—I left your birthday present in my room. This stomachache nearly killed me.”

“It’s okay.”

Ikue took my hand and led me past the rows of my grandchildren until we reached the very front.

Before settling onto my favorite red cushion, I looked around to see how many of my grandchildren had come. All sixteen of them were here—every grandchild my seven children had given me. I knew every single one of their names by heart.

There was Ikue, of course—my favorite granddaughter, the birthday girl.

There was Ito, my oldest grandchild, who had come with his wife, heavily pregnant. Good heavens, I’ll be a great-grandmother before long.

There was Shinji, who had just gotten married. I remembered how he’d lived with me for three or four years. Even though he’d been the most troublesome of all my grandchildren, I loved him dearly.

There was quiet Kenta, who loved to paint.

There was Yui, the chatty future doctor.

There was Miseo, a wonderful cook.

Then there was Jiro, who… Ah, I’ve forgotten what grade he’s in now. Hey, Jiro, why did you dye your hair blue? That boy was always full of surprises.

Then there were my youngest grandchildren. Naomi, only six or seven months old. Kenneth, who started elementary school this year. Claire, who loved to sing. Michael, the drummer.

Honestly, why did their parents insist on giving them foreign names? (AR)