Geisha

pitty-pit-pat, pitty-pit-pat ... dark attic, echoing ... tenderly rain on tin roof above, her nana's voice, ages hence - lives ago, really ... calling … "Little Tea Pot, Little Tea Pot - come to me!" a world away now, she remembered the words - the name her nana had given her yet she could no longer recall the tone of her voice the sweet timbre, coaxing - “Little Tea Pot!” pitty-pit-pat, pitty-pit-pat ... her eyes swam at the thought and she strained to hear it in her mind but no, it was too far away ... much too far ... she hobbled slowly up the ladder to the roof hatch, pushing it open with one hand, empty bucket dangling in the other ... ‘who needs a cistern?’, she thought, ‘would my tears not suffice?’ there had certainly been enough of them … her inky almond eyes poked up above the roof tiles as she gazed across the sea of Ginza chimneys, city being swallowed by twilight, smoky wisps winding downward in the rain's torrent, as if unsure of the sky ... pitty-pit-pat, pitty-pit-pat - “Little Tea Pot!” the cool rain tickled her cheeks like a child's fingertips, playing, and she turned her face up, letting the downpour lixiviate her tears, lost now, (as she seemed to be) … not in dreams would she have ever imagined her life to be thus - servitude, yes ... but a hostess? a dancer? a conversationalist? a lady of the Ozashiki? it was a revered profession, she lived very well, and afforded the finest of everything ... yet ... she longed for the simple life of her childhood, and the warmth of her family's home, nestled in the shadow of Fuji - plum blossoms and snow, swims in the Shojiko, and the rice festivals of June ... so far away ... so very far away ... pitty-pit-pat, pitty-pit-pat - “Little Tea Pot!” she dipped the bucket into the cistern, seeing her care-worn visage in the water's smooth surface - the Oshiroi makeup no longer hid the years in her face and neck, and she was a nana now, herself, though her girls were unknown to her, taken at an early age as she was, in the middle of the night ... more thoughts to bring tears, and she pushed them quickly out of her head ... (along with their tender cries, that STILL trembled her tympans) naught she could do now - her course had been made for her, and like the weep in her gaze, it flowed to the very lowest point - far beyond her grasp ... pitty-pit-pat, pitty-pit-pat ... and SHE, despite her regrets - despite the horrid ache for her little ones, for the white crest of Fuji and the blossoms of the sacred valley - for the family she'd been torn from so long ago, and the dream of death's gentle slumber - for the song of the crickets and the breath of spring-tide's bloom - for the simple, perfect pleasures she'd once known - despite her yearning it ALL, she ... had work to do ... “Little Tea Pot!” … she pulled the bucket from the cistern’s dark depths, watching her image blur as the surface rippled, started down the ladder and shut the roof hatch, then took the last few rungs to the attic floor ... and, as she walked into the warm, welcoming belly of the old house, the sound of the rain once again echoed her nana's call - pitty-pit-pat, pitty-pit-pat - "Little Tea Pot, Little Tea Pot ... come to me!" oh, how she loved the rain …