Aurora 2025 with cover

Kay Shae

emotions.

“Yes. They did. But that didn’t mean there weren’t hardships after they escaped Hiroshima.” I paused, thinking of what to say next, “Life wasn’t at all what it used to be.” A sharp exhale is heard in the back of the room. They are relieved that this tale isn’t as grime as the others they have heard. As I look up at the mementos around me, I find the words I haven’t been able to say before. “As a baby during the bombings, I don’t remember anything about it,” gripping the armrest, I gather my strength to stand, crossing the floor; my cane taps along with an audible clink, “I remember being terrified of small places and sirens as a child, but didn’t understand as to why,” standing in front of my mother’s kimono, staring up at the beautiful pattern it once was, she never would let me buy her a new one once I was able to. “Honestly, I didn’t know some of the details of this story until a few years ago.” Turning to face the students, their looks of bewilderment and confusion make a small chuckle escape from my brief memory. The students erupted in an echoing, “What!?” The clattering of pens and the violent rustling of paper resounded their shock. The teachers who had heard the story before gently nodded, knowing the details of this tale were different from previous sessions I had done years prior. Shuffling back to my chair, I take hold of the glass of water that I barely sipped on during this tale—trying to remove the knot that has formed in my throat after setting the glass down and settling back into my oversized chair. The audience settles again, lined with more questions than I have probably had answers for. “My mother,” clearing my throat, “Never told me how she found me.” Tears welled into my eyes as a photo of my mother holding me in a formal kimono crossed the screen, “I grew up believing that she was the one who gave birth to me.” This is not the place for tears, “She raised a baby as her own. That she had

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