The Traveling Sketchbook

"She is very old," Mr. Takeshita replied with a sad look on his face. "She often does not know what is happening."

Anne thought he said this because Japanese always describe family members in less than good terms. It was a way of being polite, like not bragging.

Mr. Takeshita's voice softened. "She is a little like this lamp," he said, his forefinger touching an old Japanese lamp sitting in the Takeshitas' entrance way. "It's only a box made of paper with fragile black lacquered ribs around it. But from inside the box sometimes a soft glow shines out."

Anne asked Mr. Takeshita in a quiet voice, "Why does your grandmother often forget things?"

"Very old people frequently forget things and she is very, very, old, now ninety-three. Already, her spirit is leaving her. On the days she forgets where she is, I think her spirit is just gone somewhere else, looking for the path it must to take to the mountain when she dies."

"To the mountain?" Anne asked, thinking this was a strange expression.

"Yes, we Japanese say that when somebody dies, they go to the mountain."

"Why? Are mountains special?"

"Ah, yes. The mountains are sacred. That is why we always build our temples at the foot of a mountain.