Epilogue: written by Sumiko Murao, 1998
On November 24, 1992, I flew to Houston, Texas where my aunt Kichi lived. I was 77 years old, in a wheelchair, and Kichi, 96 years old. “It makes me weep when I imagine that my children will live their lives in America as Americans, without knowing anything about Japan after I die.” This grief of my aunt, expressed in many of her letters, made me decide to go to Texas.
Kichi cried as soon as I arrived at her house. Kichi never let me go anywhere without her during my eight-day stay in Texas; even when I wanted to go to the bathroom, she followed me. Her second son, William, sometimes said to Kichi, “You'll lose your voice!” while I was there, because she constantly spoke so loudly. On December 1st, my last day in Texas, Kichi came outside on the porch to see me off. We cried, embracing each other.
After I returned to Japan, I received a letter from Kichi saying she was sorry that she couldn't entertain me more. She also wrote some things she felt she couldn't talk to me about while I was with her in Texas. After sharing with me the sad memories she hadn't been able to share with anyone, she stopped writing, as though she was relieved. Three years later, I received the news that she had passed away. She was 99 years old.
I have translated this diary of her life in America so that her children and their children might better understand and remember her.
From left: Chris, Kichi, Sumiko, and William