Makiko Morimoto

2/11/2025: Mom died at 1600 Pacific time at 94 years old. Mom had a nice conversation with Annalee who was her favorite eldercare giver. Annalee came to visit mom and tell her she will see her soon. Perhaps that gave her the closure she needed, because she died within minutes afterwards. She didn’t suffer.

1/14/2025: Yesterday was the last of my 4 days visiting Mom. It was the best day of them all. She had a shower the day before and slept all night. In the morning, she was her usual self humming repeatedly. After a short nap, we had lunch and she resumed her daily routine of pacing between her room and the living room. I gave her a sublingual Lorazepam to help ease her anxiety as per her hospice care recommendations. I have been hesitating giving this to her since it makes her more sleepy and I can't interact with her when she is sleeping. But this time, it calmed the pacing and we spent hours conversing, I held her hand and massaged her while we talked about her deceased family and Dad. I attempted to ask if she could cooperate with the people taking care of her who just want to make her life better since she has been refusing showers, diaper changes, and things she really needs.

When she became more sleepy, I asked her "netai desu ka" or do you want to sleep. She nodded affirmatively, but when I held her hands to help her up off the couch she said she wanted to stay with me there. Unfortunately, I'm an emotional person and it brought me to tears. I stayed with her on the couch as long as I could since I had to leave to go to the airport and Uber is not reliably on time, especially in Abq. We had a nice long hug and I whispered “I love you Mom, I will always love and think of you.” I tucked her into bed and kissed her good-bye. I wish we could have had more time like this, but you don’t always get what you want and need to savor the moments you get. Poor Lucy (Gary's oldest dog) was asking for our daily walk, but Mom was more important at that time. Sorry Lucy.

Below are some pics of Mom laughing "your hands are cold as ice".

Mom grew up in Hiroshima:

She remembered playing with her older sister Keiko and recalled how intelligent she was. Her oldest brother, Yoshihiko, wasn’t as close with her. The time before the atomic bombing was full of stress but love. Her younger sister Yoko and baby brother Tadayuki were too young to understand the stresses associated with the war. As a child she attended both Japanese and Christian schools and recalls learning how to use the Naginata (long staff with sword at the end).

Mom recalled her father and his business sense, the owner of a food company. She described his insistence that she and her siblings hide away in the cubby holes he built into their house in Hiroshima while the U.S. bombed Tokyo and other cities in an attempt to pressure Japan’s surrender. At that time he told her they would be safe away from the war with food stashed away in the nooks and crannies of their safe space. With pride in her voice, she recalled how her father showed devotion to her and her siblings through this truly ingenious act of love. The fear he felt for his family manifested in dedication to such protective acts in hope of shielding them all from the horrors that eventually destroyed their home. I don’t recall a description of her mother. Perhaps because it was too painful a memory.

August 6, 1945 the Hiroshima atomic bomb: 80,000 died in the initial blast and 140,000 died by the end of the year. “Everything was on fire” Mom recalled. She had suffered in silence with these memories her entire life but afterwards cried reliving those painful, horrific memories. Many family members died that day.

In the aftermath of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, mom discovered the remains of her Father (Taichi), Mother (Yuki), and oldest sister (Keiko), in the remnants of their once protected home. Tears, anger, and fear flooded her life. She was spared this fate only because she was called upon at the age of 14 to support the war effort by working in a factory outside the reach of the atomic bomb and its devastation. Keiko decided to play hooky that tragic day, sealing her fate.

Mom had to walk from the factory for days to make her way back to the remains of the building once known as her home. Everything was destroyed. Her father’s safe was broken into from the gaping back. It was forced open with all their savings stolen in a desperate attempt by someone to survive at the expense of the dead. She recalled her neck swelling (likely thyroid hyperplasia caused by radiation exposure) that eventually led to thyroid cancer decades later.

She struggled to recall the days growing up in the aftermath, at least openly. This was too painful to remember. What she did recall were the efforts she and her remaining brothers and sister, uncles, obaachan, and ojiichan made to survive. Although scant and scattered, these memories were cast in the light of honor and dedication to her family. Mom always stressed the importance of honoring family above self. Survival with clean food/water and shelter was their focus early on as expected. Luckily her father’s business had been based on manufacture and storage of rice, beans, miso, and associated food products. Their family was able to survive on this for some time and even generously shared with neighbors who were beneficiaries of her father’s generosity when he was alive.

At a difficult time, they had to move to an uncle’s home farther away to survive. She remembered her living with her crippled obaachan who dragged herself across the tatami to cook and clean since she could not walk. She remembered massaging her to ease her pain. I imagine her obaachan smiling back at her in love.

She eventually found work in coffee and pastry shops and enjoyed the camaraderie and a growing degree of self-confidence that came with her work. She remembered how her hard work and dedication earned praise and how proud she felt working to survive in those times. As time passed, she became a young woman reaching her 20s in this post-apocalyptic world.

In 1995, Mom and I went to Japan to honor her father, mother, and sister at the 50th memorial services held by her brother, Yoshihiko. We toured Hiroshima and she recalled the events of those days as much as she allowed herself. It was obviously troubling for her, but I had a sense she came to some degree of closure.

As was tradition in Japan, my father and mother had an arranged marriage. This is perhaps foreign for those who are not familiar with this, but my ojiichan and obaachan on my father’s side knew that my father would never marry without an arrangement since he was blind from birth and considered imperfect. My mother would also never marry outside of an arrangement since she was “hibakusha” (an atomic bomb survivor and discriminated against). The arrangement between families was made with as much attention to honor and health as made sense. To say this marriage was ideal, would be to glamorize what was just a chance for happiness in an unperfect world. As any marriage, there were ups and downs. Mom was relentlessly in denial of Dad’s handicap, wanting more from him and often complained when he was unable to be what she felt was “normal”. My father took this criticism with a smile and largely passed it off. I couldn’t stay silent and often defended him. From my point of view, he was able to do more than we should expect of him. As a child he rode a bicycle and took me to elementary school on the canvas covered top tube. Mom tried to find anything that would help Dad’s vision consulting doctors and hoping for a miracle. I speculate that malnutrition as a baby led to his blindness that only worsened with age until he became totally blind. Below is an old pic of Mom, Dad, and sons.

Upon arriving in America, Mom became a cashier at our family grocery store, Morimoto’s Market. She was thrust into this role not knowing how to speak English but she came to learn it very well. At the end her dementia took most of her ability to speak, losing her Japanese last.

She was always pleasant and hard working (as was expected of the Japanese of her generation). She was a dragon mother demanding discipline, hard work, and the best school results. However due to the demands of work at the market and limited grasp of the American language she was unable to help us with our learning at home, except for times-tables. We were never rich but had a decent life with much to eat, often items that were frozen or close to expiration, but never rotten. Every night was spent with mom, tallying the cash register receipts alongside my uncle Hiroshi, while I swept the floors in silence dreaming what it would be like to live a fulfilling life. In post-WWII Albuquerque, it was less than ideal to be a Japanese person, especially if you didn’t speak English. Despite this, mom and the rest of our small family were slowly accepted into our community. Decades of hard work at the market led to friendships and a Japanese sense of family. Mom had a few friends who shared flower arrangements, (Mom loved flowers, see picture of mom with rhododendrons), Japanese Mahjong, and many dinner celebrations, especially New Years. My obaachan and ojiichan didn’t really try to become more American, living in their protected bubble of being Japanese.

Like most Asians I know, Mom was always superstitious. She taught me, never to spill rice or risk blindness. Never sleep facing north, or risk death. Eat kuromame (japanese black soybeans) one for each month of the year for health and good luck.

Mom’s spirit and hard work were etched into her sons who survive her.

Mom always loved and sat for her grandchildren and never complained, even though she should have. I took too much advantage of her generosity to sit for the kids. The only comment she made was that my youngest cried all the time. Probably as a result of recurrent ear infections.

After the market closed, Mom was able to find a new purpose by working for a successful ophthalmologist. She enjoyed the work with this office, becoming friends with the Dr., his wife and her family. Mom always enjoyed those times but eventually had to retire to care for her ailing husband.

Mom took care of my father’s parents (ojiichan and obaachan) as well as my father in their elderly years. My brother was there to help her take care of my father. He is a hero. I was never really there since I was either in school or training. When I visited her and Dad, it was always pleasant. I remember her making traditional Japanese meals like eel donburi with special sauce and graded yamaimo (Japanese yam). I never heard her complain, but I tearfully remember the day I left her under the cover of her house to return to my home and the sadness on her face.

Mom didn’t want to move from her home after Dad’s death. She was set in her ways (some say she is stubborn, a trait that helped her survive) After struggling mom moved in with my brother. He took care of her with the help of a caregiver service and his wife. I contributed as much as I could to her care given my limited resources. She had dementia and was dying as of this writing. At this late stage of dementia, She only spoke a few words at a time, didn’t want to talk for very long and had stopped eating or drinking much.

Writing this memorial has been emotionally difficult. There are times when I struggled to bring myself to think about her life since it was at times an unimaginable horror, but some might say it is a testament to her for enduring the worst and still living a life that many would envy. I love her and hope this memorial will provide a glimmer into who she was and why she was important to our family.

Makiko (obaachan to her grandchildren) was an incredibly strong, resilient person. She dedicated her life to caring for her family, even when it meant giving up the country she was born in and the language she knew. Though her life was filled with hardships, she did not let them define or consume her. Her perseverance and indomitable spirit were passed down to her children, and her legacy lives on through them, her grandchildren, and great grandchild. The love and light that she brought into this world are remembered fondly by all who knew her. Memories of the fantastic New Years feasts that she cooked, her well-kept garden, and the loving hugs she gave are still with us. She taught her grandchildren how to cook, arrange flowers, and reminded them to enjoy life. The joyous sound of her laughter and the sweet smell of her perfume, the wisdom she shared and the conversations she led will forever be in our hearts. She will be deeply missed.

Mom, you are the reason I became the person I am. Your spirit will always shine brightly in mine as long as I live. Although we really didn’t speak of our love(not the Japanese way), You always showed your love for us in how you took care of us all. Like arriving home after a long school’s day to find your fried rice and miso soup waiting for me. Or when you and Dad picked me up in your heated car from school on a cold winter’s day so I didn’t have to freeze on the walk home alone. Or when I visited you when Dad was dying and you made me Unagi donburi with yamaimo and sauce that your sister Yoko sent you from Japan. Or how you cared for my children when I worked out at the gym or went out of town. The smile on your face told me all I needed to know of your love. I am sorry I took you for granted and wasn’t always there for you when you needed me. We who survive you will always be better because of you.

You and Dad came to visit us in the strange places I ended up in over the years.

It is very hard to try to put feelings and memories in writing and then have them fall short of what is felt “and remembered.

Auntie Miki, how little I have known about your life, especially your young life and how you had to face a cataclysm beyond comprehension and then deal with its aftermath. You continued all your life to summon up tremendous courage and fortitude to manage the difficulties, obstacles and uncertainties of life. You did this with much honor and determination throughout. You accomplished this with optimism and kindness. Your sons do you much honor for they continue this tradition in their own lives. The love and devotion you always gave to them has been constant and generous, extending to their families as well.

It has been a gift to witness your life, the demonstration of your love, the compassion offered to others, the wonderful things you concocted in the kitchen and which no one could duplicate. You have touched many and in tangible ways over the decades, and this love and compassion continue to resonate today, even as your heath declines. Your determination and character have not deserted you, even as your strength diminishes.

My deepest respect and love for all you have accomplished and confronted in life, with your signature determination, courage, innate intelligence and compassion for others.Your family, here and in Japan, are honored by your life. I have been so lucky to call you Auntie and treasure the times we had together.

With much love,

Cathy”

She made us french toast in the morning when we slept over, and her house smelled like Japanese groceries and fresh desert rain. I remember her potato croquettes, and katsu, and new years day breakfast. I remember playing at her house and watching winnie the pooh and feeling safe. I remember going on walks around the coronado mall with her, which she did every day.

I remember visiting her as an adult and watching a movie series with her about the Japanese spirit, and after reading what my dad wrote, I think it mirrored her own life and childhood pretty closely. She wanted to share what she had been through with me without saying it, and also wanted to share the importance of perseverance, honor, and being a good person. I think I understood.

She encouraged my art, and she often told me that her ancestors were artists in Japan. She asked me, “are you still making art?”, “are you still making music?” I am, Obaachan.

I remember talking with her on the phone throughout my life, she would always ask, “are you doing well in school?”, “are you making friends?” and other details about my life, and later, when I was older and she was older, she mostly only asked “are you happy?”

And I think she understood that ultimately that is what matters in life, and that if I was happy, that was enough, even if she didn’t understand all the nuances of my life. And I think that ultimately is what matters: to live and be happy, and love full-heartedly, like Obaachan did.

I learned so much about what it means to be a strong person, a good person, and a loving person from her. I love you, Obaachan. You will always be a part of me, and I promise to care for and remember the Japanese spirit, and the spirit you brought to everything you did in this world.

I remember her singing to me:

Pop-pop-po hato pop-po.

Mame ga hoshii ka? Sora yaru zo.

Minna de nakayoku tabe ni koi!

Kellen