All Over Creation by Ruth Ozeki Page B

probably wouldn’t have left me the land in the first place. So I’m glad you have it, all right? Does that make you feel better?”
    Cass nodded. She’d been clutching the wheel, shoulders risen up around her ears, and now she dropped them. “Thanks, Yummy. It does.”
    â€œGood. We know your journey has been a hard one,” Yummy said solemnly. Cass started to laugh.
    â€œI envied you, you know. I was always the potato.”
    â€œOh, poor Cassie!”
    â€œDo you know what it was like, lying there, tied up in that darn burlap bag, trying not to sneeze?”
    â€œYeah, but look at you now! Like a beanpole. Anyway, all you vegetables got to do the Pageant of the Side Dishes, and I had to sit there and watch. There were so many of you it took forever. ”
    â€œIt was our moment of glory! Yummy, do you know what it’s like to go through life as a side dish?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you do.”

yumi

    A white index card, meticulously printed in thick black marker, was taped to the refrigerator. It said REFRIGERATOR. Another that said STOVE was taped to the stove. Over the SINK the sign was warped by splashed water. I could stand there all night identifying appliances, and the kids would get up in the morning and find me, still naming.
    They had loved it, of course. Ocean in particular. Like it was a neat game made up just for her, and she ran from sign to sign, collecting words like eggs in an Easter basket. “Toaster!” she cried. “Honey! Microwave!”
    â€œYour grandpa made them,” Cass explained. “For your grandma. Sometimes she forgets the names for things.”
    She’d helped me round up bedding before she left, and I’d gotten the kids settled. Phoenix had claimed the attic, with its sloping room and chipped iron bed, but Ocean and Poo lay tangled in blankets in a corral of sofa cushions on the floor of my old bedroom, sleeping under my ceiling of faded stars. Now, downstairs, the CLOCK said it was almost midnight. I wanted a whiskey, but I knew there wouldn’t be any, so I heated water for tea instead. A sticky film of amber grease speckled the sides of the kettle. The plywood under the Formica counter by the faucet had swollen, and the laminate was lifting and peeling away. The faucet coughed, spit air, then began to flow, and the plumbing shuddered. As the kettle filled, I looked down and noticed two small patches on the floor where the linoleum had worn through. They were the imprints of Momoko’s feet, unlabeled, of course, the by-product of hours and years she must have spent standing there washing dishes. I aligned my large feet with the marks made by my mother’s small ones, covering them up. My demented mother, who forgot the names of things.
    As the kettle boiled, I opened a drawer or two, then shut each one quickly as the contents, duly labeled, threatened to spring out and overwhelm me. More by-product. Certain objects tickled recognition: the plastic corncob holders, the meat thermometer, the metal skewers used for stitching bread crumbs into a turkey. I rubbed my eyes to rub away the images before they unfurled into memories. I poured boiling water over a dusty tea bag from the drawer and walked into the living room.
    I remembered exactly where the switches were located. In an unconscious sequence of automatic gestures, my hand reached toward the wall just as my foot crossed the threshold, resulting in a flood of illumination that startled me—the spatial relationships were familiar, but the details of the room confused me with their sudden clarity. For a moment I wondered where I was.
    But not for long. For one thing, there was a sign that read LIVING ROOM, stuck to the opposite wall. Then, gradually, like a photograph developing, the room found its resolution and I began to recognize objects: love seat, Lloyd’s desk, couch, Lloyd’s recliner, coffee table, TV. I sat on the