“Our Japanese lady died,” I told my neighbors shortly after rushing in late to the party last week.
“Oh no!” exclaimed several.
“That is so sad,” one woman said, sincerely distraught. “How did you find out?” Mary Ann asked.
The waitress at Sophia’s, the diner practically at our back door, had told me when I was at lunch that day. Actually, she said, “Did you hear our Chinese lady died?” Having been to both China and Japan, I was quite certain she was Japanese, until I talked to my neighbor Carol who was quite certain she was Vietnamese. Really, I knew almost nothing about this woman, though the people in my apartment building thought of her as “our” lady, because she was our neighbor, our unknowable friend, someone we cared about.
I knew almost nothing about this wraith-like woman who haunted the area around our downtown apartment building, digging in dumpsters, bending down on the sidewalks to retrieve cigarette butts she considered still smokable. She was, perhaps, 60. She was, perhaps, 102.
I knew almost nothing about her, but I knew she always wore the same seasonably inappropriate clothes: a stretched-out knit cap, a saggy sweater, pastel stretch pants a size too big. The clothes were always too heavy or not heavy enough for the season, but she never varied her ensemble to accommodate the weather. Her neighbors noticed she had recently acquired an old/new sweater, replacing the pink striped one with a graying beige pullover. I learned that my neighbor Carol left bags of clothes for her, but Carol never saw her wear the clothes. Shoes? I can’t remember what kind she wore. I surveyed my neighbors, and they couldn’t remember either.
She always wore a badge pinned to her sweater, the plastic kind you get at conventions. Though I never got close enough to read it, I assumed it indicated she was in some program for the indigent, but I don’t really know. Maybe the tag was clipped to the sweater when she got it. Maybe she wore it as a type of adornment, and accessory. But I hoped some agency was aware of her existence and was looking after her.
I knew almost nothing about her, but I knew where she lived, in an apartment above the Sports Page restaurant, right next to Sophia’s. 
The brick building was, sometime in the distant past, painted a cream color, but now the paint was chipped, and the façade looked like the age-spotted face of the Japanese lady. I could walk to its entrance through the alley behind my building in less than a minute, but we were a thousand miles apart.
I saw the lady use her keys to get in the building, and I was happy to see she had a warm place in the winter to rest her head. But really, I don’t know if her apartment was warm in winter, though I was pretty sure it was hot in summer because almost all the windows remained open day and night. There were fans perched in several windows whirring side to side.
Whenever I saw a person entering the front door of her building, I always took notice, trying to surmise his or her life story. Every resident I saw looked as worn down by life as that apartment building. Their clothes, as a rule, were ill-fitting, and they carried plastic bags of stuff, rather than the man purses and brief cases and monogrammed Land’s End tote bags carried by the secretaries and lawyers and accountants that rushed up and down Main.
On the top floor of her apartment building, the window on the right has bright pink curtains, made, perhaps, from sheets tacked to the frame. They
hang still against the dirty window in winter. They hang still even in the summer when the window is wide open. I always wondered, is this where the Japanese lady lives? Or did she live in the one apartment where the window was always shut?
Was she watching us when we couldn’t see her? Did she know that we cared? Did she care that we cared?
The residents in my apartment building kept track of the Japanese lady. It was not uncommon for us to discuss her whereabouts as we ladies sipped our Happy Hour wine at the Crown Republic. ‘Saw her on Fifth,” one might say. “She looked pretty good.” We all scouted for her skinny body, her rounded back, her lank grey hair. We were satisfied when we saw her doing her thing.
I knew almost nothing about the Japanese lady, but I knew that people scared her. In the eight years I’ve lived downtown, I learned that my usual bombastic attempts at hospitality startled her. She never panhandled, and that may have been less about need than about her fear of people. But I am happy to say that after about five years, if I waved and said hello, her puckered, toothless mouth would curve into a small smile, and she’d give me a timid wave with her hand at hip level.
Once, I was in my car in the parking lot behind our apartment building, getting ready to zoom off to some social event or another, and I saw her walk up the alley to a sewer grate just 100 feet away and empty a bucket of liquid down the opening. She was so intent on her chore, that I didn’t want to startle her by starting my car. I was entranced by the methodical way she took a rag to wipe out the empty bucket and then polish the metal grate. She spent some time in that position so common in Asian countries: squatting effortlessly on her haunches as if there were a chair underneath.
There seemed to be pride in her action, pride in the cleanliness and self-sufficiency and duty. But I don’t really know that.
Rooms cost about $100 a week.
The Sophia’s waitress told me that the lady was once married. That she had a daughter from whom she was estranged. That she lived in the Dennison Hotel until they tore it down. That she had been moved (by whom?) for a while to an apartment over Algin Furniture on the opposite side of Main. That the landlord at the Sports page reported that they found her sour body possibly a week after she died.
That she had knives stuck in the baseboards all around the room. I didn’t know this lady, but I know fear. And she was afraid.
Yesterday, I returned to Sophia’s for my weekly gyro (“Best in Cincy,” the sign claims, and that’s true). I asked the waitress if she had learned anything more about our lady, but she hadn’t.
“Was she an immigrant? Could she speak English?”
“Been here twenty years and never heard her speak a word,” she said. I didn’t know her. I never heard her. But I miss her. Strange, right?”
I dream about the lady.
She is in a bamboo forest in Japan. It is quiet except for the rustling of the bamboo as it grows, two inches every hour.
She is so small, She barely fills the space between the stalks. She is vanishing amidst the strong poles.
But I can still see her.
In my dream, she has a name, Kinuko.
“Hello there, Kinuko,” I call out to her. “Are you okay?”
She smiles. She waves.
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A very insightful piece of writing. I live in a house on a dead-end street and I don’t know any of my neighbors well enough to borrow a cup of sugar. That’s pretty sad.
Thanks for reading and writing, Jan. It has been an unexpected pleasure that I know more of my neighbors here in the city than I knew in my suburban life.
Thanks to you, Sandy, the Japanese lady lives. . .you celebrated her quiet, her dignity, her secrets remain secret. Loved this kind observation of a constant, if unknown–shadow in our lives.
Your comment gratified me so much! I had hoped that I would strike the right tone, that I didn’t simply mourn her solitary life, but celebrated her existence on this planet. Thanks so much for reading and responding.
In the time we have lived here (8 years), Sandy and I have identified three people-of-the-streets: this lady, the dreadlocks guys, and the vendor. We may be down to one. Deadlocks guy has not been seen for quite a while doing his blank-stare walk around the streets. I did get to talk to him once, but his only reply was to ask for money. The vendor is still with us. In fact, today as I left the Main Library he spotted me and said “hello.” He is a sports freak. He started going on about the Bengals, how bad they were, is Marvin going to be fired. I am glad to know he is still with us.
Your piece reminds me how important it is to know the lives of those who surround us. How do we reach out across pain, stories, difference to know on another and live in solidarity.
We are all neighbors, right, Tammy? I am sure you have seen some of these solitary people walking near the school. In some way, I hope, our positive hopes and thoughts for them is, on some level, a comfort to them.
I love how you honored her in your dream, placing her in the bamboo forest. My favorite scene was you watching this woman pour liquid into the storm grate and then stopping to clean off the grate. It’s sad when a fixture from our lives disappears.
We yearned for connection with her and were sad that she wouldn’t/couldn’t engage with us. We see her life as sad, but, again, we just don’t know. Thanks for reading and responding.
This is a sad and inspiring story, Sandy. The woman was resiliant and a survivor, influencing her neighbors without knowing it. But so sad that she died alone and lived such a solitary existence. I suspect she was mentally ill without treatment, but who knows what went on in her mind? I like your dream of her peaceful afterlife.
Thank you, Molly for your kind words.
Sandy, I’m sad to hear of her passing. I’ve often seen her while I walk, wondering where she went at night, what her story might be. Your post speaks of the stories I’ve often told myself about her as I passed her. She always seemed involved in some internal place, perhaps seeing bamboo where the tall buildings around her towered over her.
Your piece is lovely!
Thank you, Tina. You make the point that we are all neighbors in this world. I like what you said: “She always seemed involved in some internal place, perhaps seeing bamboo where the tall buildings around her towered over her.” Wow, even your comment has a readback!
This is poignant, Sandy. Beautifully and honestly told! <3
Your input was so valuable. You helped me strike the right tone and to honor this neighbor.
Sandy, great observations and a wonderfully written piece about our neighborhood. I love our section of downtown. It is diverse and as Rick says, it has it’s regular characters. Heck, I suspect my husband’s one of them. I am happy I live in an area where my neighbors don’t look exactly like me. I will miss this particular lady because she was so much a part of our neighborhood. I wish I could of handed her the bags of clothes and shoes but I knew she would turn away from me. Those bags always disappeared in a day or so, My hope is that she took them.
Thank you, Carol. I am so glad I had that conversation with you which rounded out my portrayal of our neighbor. Thank you for your support of my writing.
Sandy, this is your best piece ever (imho). Just beautiful!
Thank you so much, Linda! I worked very hard to strike the right tone, to honor the lady and not in any way to be disrespectful.
Touching and sad…not only for the reclusive woman, but for those of us who have grown accustomed to viewing others as “stranger.” Thank you, Sandy, for waking us up a bit with your writing.
I am honored that you read my post. Thank you for your kind words.
Wow, this one brought tears to my eyes. A lovely tribute.
Thanks for reading and responding, Dori. I am glad you thought I honored her with my words.
I “knew” the Japanese lady too. I didn’t know she had died. Your writing brought a tear to my eye and your dream of her in a bamboo forest gave me a chill – it was beautiful! Thanks for sharing your lovely thoughts and the little information I now know about her.
Thank you, Brigid, for reading and responding. She was an important neighbor to all of us.
A sad story. Perhaps by writing it you gave her a tribute, a farewell or acknowledgment of her life. That she had worth. Namaste.
Thank you, Cathy. I am glad you felt my writing honored you.
Your post cries tenderness and speaks to the quiet lives that surround us daily. I live hundreds of miles away, yet I know her. And you. I trust she has found peace, in the spirit of this holiday season.
Sandy this piece really touched my heart. You have the soul of a poet besides being an empathetic person. Coming from the island of Manhattan, NYC City the so called marginal people get forgotten. You gave this woman her moment in time and tribute just by seeing her with “the eyes of your heart.” Beautiful!!!!