2016-2017 Write Eye flip book

back. Suddenly, we all turn towards a big blue school bus that pulls up into the parking lot. The horn honks once, and the families start lining up in front of it, single file. Sachi turns back towards us one last time. “Well, I guess this is goodbye,” she whispers solemnly. We all embrace in a group hug, shoulder-to-shoulder, not wanting to let go. We stay this way for a minute until we hear whistles being blown by the guards standing around the bus. “Do not worry about me,” Sachi says one final time. “I will be back.” And she grabs her case off the ground, slowly turns around and begins walking toward the bus. My arms stay wrapped around my children’s shoulders. We watch in silence as the woman we have come to cherish the past few months leaves us for a place where we know she won’t be treated fairly, knowing there's nothing we can do about it. It is a dreary April morning, fifty years after America and Britain declared war on Japan. I am busy in the kitchen preparing a Sunday night dinner for my family: my wonderful wife Karen and my two children, Claire and James Jr. “I will be right there!” I shout back at her, wondering what it could be. As I walk into the room, I immediately come to a standstill. Bold words flash across the TV screen: “Government mailed $20,000 as war reparations to living Japanese Internment Camp members.” “Sachi,” I whisper, still staring at the TV screen, remembering the last time I saw her. *** “James sweetie, look at the television!”

“Do you think you will receive money?” Karen asks me, snapping me out of my trance. “No, I was not in the camp, remember? Sachi was just our housekeeper.” I tell her. “You never know.” she shrugs. “Just check the mailbox to be sure.” “Alright, but nothing will be there,” I assure her as I walk out the front door. I walk down our paved driveway, shaking my head at Karen’s foolishness. I whip open the mailbox handle, and sure enough, sitting there is a 9x12 manila envelope addressed to Sachi. I gasp and furrow my brow as I immediately rip it open. I reach into the envelope and pull out an apology letter from President George Bush as well as a $20,000 check. “So this is all that Sachi’s life was worth.” I shake my head, disgusted. “Merely $20,000 for all the pain and anguish she experienced at the camp?” Upset, I walk back into my home and show Karen the check. She is very excited about the money yet upset and confused just as I am. Karen and I decide we will never cash the check.

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