When I was very young, my father took us by car from our home in Odawara, just two blocks from the Pacific Ocean, to the great shipping port of Yokohama. Gramma had been with us for six months and was now returning to the United States, to her small white frame house with its large garden--rose bushes, raspberries, peach trees, and a lone cherry tree. Mamma had made snacks to eat in the car, and so as we drove through the crowded streets on the outskirts of Tokyo, we munched on hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches and gulped from our cups Kool-Aid or hot coffee which had been carefully poured from red and green checkered Thermoses. The grown-ups seemed to talk of everything; yet, the trip seemed wrapped in silence.

When we arrived, Dad had to check Gramma's trunk in with the shipping company. In the office, the bench was hard, and legs swung back and forth, keeping time with the boredom and with the ticking of the clock on the wall. The smell of ink and stale cigarette smoke hung stagnant between my ears. The wall was made of squares of polished marble, the grain filled with pictures of islands and hills of faraway places. Finally, Dad had reached the counter. I could hear hushed voices speaking to one another in Japanese, sounds so distinct and familiar yet unintelligible. We soon went out and found Mamma and Gramma snoozing in the car.

The day was clear blue, seagulls careening overhead--crying forlornly--the smell of tar and rope and sea salt wafting our way on the wind, the sounds of ships going out to sea, blasting their farewells--a shattered call in the distance, and then--fading--slowly as if sorry to have to go. The sun shone on the water in shimmers of gold and silver, as tugboats trudged the waves ushering about ships and barges. The ship was brilliant white up in the glaze of sunlight, then fading to yellow and a rusty red at water's edge. Between pier and ship, the water was black with rainbows of oil floating here and there. Long gangways reached from pier to deck. Cranes lifted cargo high overhead. People stood at the railing above us, surveying the port spread out before them. More people stood on the pier waving upwards, or fumbling with luggage, or embracing those to be sorely missed.

When we reached the pier, we stood gazing up at her through strands of red, blue, orange, green, and yellow, paper ribbons shining in the sunlight. Gramma held the end of a yellow

We watched the ship for a long time after it left the pier. The paper streamers had broken and fallen into the water. The captain blew the horn, blasting a farewell out across the waves. We all had a knot of boiled egg lodged in our throats. The ship grew smaller and smaller until it sank into the horizon like a crescent moon on a clear night.

We drove back through the crowded streets, cars honking, and voices shouting, people hurrying to return home; we rode along, thinking of people and places far away. Lights came on as dusk settled like a shroud upon the land. Neon blinked starkly in blue, red, and yellow. . .

The wind is full in my face, bringing the scent of sea and salt, rope, and tar. A seagull just overhead hangs motionless, soaring into the wind as if pausing for a moment to survey earth, wind, and sky. Then banking and falling, the gull cries out in lonely call for something no longer near. Out across the harbor, a tugboat brings a ship into haven, while others wait for the homeward journey. The ship is brilliant white in the afternoon sun. Looking down, he had thrown the streamer far out over the pier; it hung for a moment, and then fell skidding across the concrete. And now we stand holding ends of a brilliant arc of blood-red, gazing at each other across the vastness of sky and wind. The air is full and fresh in the lungs--rushing in, escaping out, keeping time with the waves and tide.

Tugboats blast their horns to each other, signals of departure. As the engines turn angrily in its depths, the ship glides out over black waters. Quickly, I roll out more of the paper streamer. Dad waves, hand held high overhead, while the other tightly grasps the streamer. The air is filled with a brilliance of sun and blue sky and a rainbow of paper streamers, fluttering in the wind. Careening far overhead, a gull--white and graceful--circles heavenward as if weary of mere earth. The arc of blood-red streamer pulls taut, and in the stillness of moment eyes meet, father and son; the streamer breaks--falling--sliding down in sagging loops. The cry of gull falls from above.

And as the ship gains distance, others join him at the rail, as if having waited too long for the welcome and turning they too slowly wave with hands raised high--and I seem to catch a glimpse of smiles and faces.

Rocketing across the harbor, the ship's horn cracks the silence--a last farewell. . . I'll stand with wind and air and watch the ship until it sinks into the horizon like the glory of an evening sun, ablaze with pink, orange, and blood red.