When You Were Here

neighbor a few blocks down who had a huge lilac bush on the side of his house. He was one of those dudes who didn’t like kids, though, one of those get out of my yard, you whippersnapper types. But my mom coveted his lilacs. So I sneaked into his yard, snipped off a few branches, and ran back down the street to our house. I placed the lilacs in a glass and handed them to my mom when she woke up.
    “You little scofflaw,” she said when I told her the story.
    “Do you like them?”
    “Love them. They’re perfect.”
    The next few days she sniffed them every chance she had.
    I drop the catalogs and everything else from the mailbox into the green recycling bin at the end of the driveway. As the papers fall, I see Mrs. Callahan from across the street. She’s in her porch swing, drinking a glass of iced tea. She holds a book in her hand and waves to me. “Good afternoon, Daniel,” she shouts.
    I wave back and turn around to head inside. I glance once more at the green bin, and just by chance—by sheer, dumb, accidental luck—I see something that doesn’t look like a catalog. It’s a letter, a handwritten one, practically an ancient artifact these days.
    I reach for the envelope. It’s addressed to me, my name written like it’s calligraphy in some sort of felt-tip pen. Thepostmark is Japanese and the name in the return address— Kana Miyoshi —is so familiar. My brain is feeling pinpricks, like someone is tapping needles against my head, trying to drum up a memory. Kana Miyoshi. I say the name silently, then whisper it. “Kana.”
    My mom mentioned Kana a few times. Kana is the teenage daughter of the woman who took care of the apartment when my mom wasn’t there. Kana lives in Tokyo. Kana knew my mom.
    Kana knew my mom.
    Everyone else is forgetting my mom. But maybe this girl remembers her.
    I peer quickly at Mrs. Callahan. She is watching me without watching me, her eyes alternating between her book and me. I know she doesn’t have bionic eyes. I know she can’t read the letter from across the street.
    Still, this is not a letter I will open in front of anyone.
    I walk back into my eerily quiet house and sit down at the kitchen counter. I slide a thumb under the envelope flap, but before I rip it open I realize my hand is shaking. My heart is beating quickly too, like I expect this letter to unleash secrets. I know it’s not from my mom; I know that. But right now it’s the closest I’m going to come to a connection to her. To anyone.
    I turn to my dog.
    “It’s a letter from Kana,” I say to Sandy Koufax, who’s stretched out on the nearby couch. Her legs poke up in theair. The back ones look like drumsticks with those meaty thighs she has. She tilts her head toward me. “What do you think it says, Sandy Koufax?”
    Sandy Koufax listens to my question and waits for an answer.
    I pull out the letter and I feel like I’m not in Los Angeles anymore. I’m thousands of miles away, in Japan, in Tokyo, in the Shibuya district. I try to shake it off, but as I unfold the letter, I can see and smell and hear and taste Tokyo. Even the paper looks Asian.
Dear Daniel—
Greetings! I am Kana Miyoshi and my mother, Mai, is the caretaker for your apartment on Maruyamacho Street. We were cleaning the apartment recently and we discovered several medication prescriptions on the shelves.
    She lists the medicines and notes whether each bottle had been opened. Most are marked as unopened. Odd.
Would you like us to ship them to you, leave them here, or dispose of them? I am sorry to trouble you with this seemingly trivial matter, but we must be careful with how we handle medication and other related items.
Please advise.
Also, it is customary in situations like this for us to inform the family of the personal effects in the apartment.
    Then she lists things like clothes and photos and other items, but what catches my attention are the next few lines.
I have sorted through the bills, and I have gathered the cards and the letters. I can send them along if you wish, or leave them here.
There are also several crossword-puzzle books, a packet of lilac seeds, and your mother’s pink wig. Perhaps you know it? It is the hot-pink wig, and, as I’m sure you know, it was her favorite. She must have left it here on her last visit in the winter. She wore it when we visited her favorite temple. I have a photo from that day, which I can send, along with any other items you might want.
Your mother was a lovely woman. We had