As rain drip drops in the woods, it fills my vessel.

Nourishing leaves and roots, the pitter patter talks to me.

And arouses sweet memories of MartaDi- my American born sister from another mother. She and I, swung this swing together.

We crackled, rejoiced, and felt free to share our fondest little truths.

She described her MaMa San and how, for many years, the only language MartaDi ever spoke and understood, was Japanese.

I confessed my interaction with MaMa San, and that I taught her some English.

MartaDi looked at me with surprise.

“How could you have known MaMa San?”

“I didn’t and I couldn’t have. Except I fantasized meeting with her.”

MartaDi and I rollicked in laughter for a long, long time.

“You’re just a storyteller, Ritu.”

“I want to swing a bit longer with you MartaDi, and I’ll do what it takes.”