Two Homes
Maya Iliniza Blodgett Cities and Memories In Tokyo, each memory tastes like steamy sweet bean paste between
soft taiyaki dough and iced sour 9% lemon chuhais in the karaoke room.
Like sharp pickled ginger and sweet eel that melts in your mouth, like my mom’s warm vegetable minestrone and lemony quinoa salad.
Each memory sounds like crows echoing through Nogawa park and the 10 second songs at every train station and distinct voices talking over
each other in the BLR. Like the air hissing as it squeezes out of my tires before my dad pumps them up with air and my mom’s singsong voice trying to pronounce our neighbor’s last name.
Each memory feels like the warmth of the heated carpet that I study on in winter and the popping of tobiko under my teeth and the chill that fills my lungs as I exhale a cloud of winter air. Like the smooth stone floors at the bottom of a steaming onsen and the gentle brushes against passengers in the crowd of a rush hour train.
Each memory looks like the squared green logo of the yamanote line and
the beady eyes of huge black ravens and the 108° symbol on sushi labels as they traverse through the conveyor belt, like the purple-hued shrubs of hair on the heads of Japanese grandmas and the dotted-textured backs of stink bugs and boxy cars entering narrow streets.
In Abu Dhabi, each memory tastes like strawberry watermelon vape and daily bagels with cream cheese and sprinkles of cinnamon. Like free
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