A few days later, Mrs. Izumi came visiting alone. “Auntie!” she greeted Mrs. Asaki, who was out in the front garden, feeding the turtles in the mossy stone vats. “I’ve come for a girls’ chat.” She held out a package of roasted miso dumplings, still hot from a local tearoom and smelling of wood smoke.

“What a treat!” said Mrs. Asaki. “Go right on up. Ma-chan’ll make us some tea.”

The Izumis were here for only a few days. They would not be coming back for the burial. For one thing, it was a non-Christian ceremony; for another, the Izumis lived too far away to make a second trip. They had left Tokyo several years ago, abandoning the main island altogether and relocating to the southernmost tip of the country. Mrs. Asaki knew very little about that region, only that it was tropical and people there had extremely brown skin.

She followed Mrs. Izumi into the informal dining area. After four years, it still offended her that her niece wouldn’t stop at the parlor to pay respects to Mr. Asaki in the family altar. It just wasn’t right. Her late husband had been especially kind to the Kobayashi children. When they were small, he would take them to a special restaurant on Christmas Eve for American hotcakes and syrup. Didn’t Tama remember? If Mrs. Asaki were younger she would have made some acidic remark. But in her old age, she was increasingly careful to ingratiate herself with her family. So she merely sang out, like the agreeable granny that she was, “Maa! Those dumplings smell wonderful!”

With the kettle on the stove, the three women sat down at the low table.

Mrs. Nishimura emptied the contents of the package onto a large plate. “Tama-chan, you’ve brought so much!” she said. “We can’t possibly eat this all. I’ll save some for the children.” She transferred a couple of skewers onto a smaller plate and slipped away behind her sister’s back—not to the kitchen, but out into the hall. Mrs. Asaki knew she was headed for the family altar, where she would deftly, discreetly offer the dumplings on her sister’s behalf. She felt a warm rush of gratitude.

She felt sorry for Mrs. Kobayashi, whose daughter refused to pray at her own sister’s funerary table. The Izumis had their own brand of prayer, which was invisible to others as it required neither chanting nor kneeling nor going anywhere near the funerary table.

But as the tea progressed, Mrs. Izumi didn’t mention religion at all. Her new, quiet maturity was more disturbing than her earlier fervor. Back then, in her childlike way, she had needed their attention. Now this gracious “outside” face reminded Mrs. Asaki of her own daughter.

“You know, after I heard the news,” Mrs. Izumi said, “that very same night, a snake appeared in my dream.”

“Maa, how auspicious!” said Mrs. Asaki with warm approval. “Snakes bring good luck.” Her late husband had carried a snakeskin wallet for many years, as a traditional way of attracting wealth and good fortune.

“Big Sister was born in the year of the snake,” added Mrs. Nishimura.

Mrs. Izumi nodded. “It’s surely a sign,” she said, “that she’s doing well on the other side.”

The women fell silent, nodding at the truth of this statement.

Mrs. Izumi and Mrs. Nishimura were not particularly close. Even as children, they were too far apart in age, in temperament, in social interests. All they had in common was their big sister.

Under their placid expressions Mrs. Asaki sensed deep emotional currents, revealing themselves in a twist of the mouth or a look in the eye. Their relationships with their big sister had been complex and personal—perhaps even painful?—and they would hold it close to their chests.

She steered the conversation toward happier ground. “When Yo-chan was young, she simply refused to wear ribbons,” she told them. “She was a stubborn one. Quiet, but stubborn.” The women laughed indulgently as she trotted out reminiscences from Mrs. Rexford’s childhood.

“It was a simpler time,” said Mrs. Izumi.

Mrs. Asaki remembered those days as anything but simple. But each generation, she knew, viewed its childhood with blind nostalgia.

The last of their laughter faded into the midday stillness of the house. They sipped their tea.

“How’s life in your new place?” Mrs. Nishimura asked.

“It’s nice out in the country. There’s a big community of church members. It’s so cheap to live there, we can work part-time.”

“How nice. We’re envious.”

“There are orchards too. Last year, I pickled my own umeboshi.”

“You?! Pickling?!” cried Mrs. Asaki in astonishment.

“Did you do it from scratch?” Mrs. Nishimura wanted to know.

“Yes, I did,” said her sister proudly. Then her expression turned sheepish. “But I messed up the vinegar or something,” she confessed, and giggled. “They turned out so hard and bitter, nobody would eat them.”

Now that’s the Tama we used to know, thought Mrs. Asaki. It saddened her that these flashes would appear less and less often, then one day fade out altogether.

On the morning after Sarah’s arrival, Mrs. Asaki and her daughter visited the Kobayashi house to pay respects to Mrs. Rexford’s ashes. The house was crowded and noisy, for the Izumis were still there. Stepping up onto the tatami floor, Mrs. Asaki felt rather festive.

“The girls will be coming by after school,” she announced. “And their father, after work.”

“Granny!” cried Sarah. “Auntie Masako!” She was eighteen now. Her body reminded Mrs. Asaki of Mrs. Kobayashi’s when she had been young. It was in the slope of the shoulders, the straight set of her neck…When Sarah walked away to fetch some extra floor cushions, the old woman recognized the outline of her sister-in-law’s long waist.

“She’s grown!” she whispered to Mrs. Kobayashi.

“Yes. But she’s still the same little girl she always was,” Mrs. Kobayashi whispered back.

“She seems to be doing well.” The loss did not show on Sarah’s face as starkly as it did on her grandmother’s. Young people were resilient. But in the days to come, Mrs. Asaki would notice that sometimes, when the girl thought no one was looking, her eyes would take on the same unfocused glaze that Mrs. Kobayashi’s did.

“She has good restraint,” she added. She expected nothing less from a member of her own family, but one never knew with Americans.

It was time to move to the parlor. “Let’s welcome your mother home,” said Mrs. Asaki. She and Mrs. Kobayashi, fellow matriarchs, led the way into the incense-clouded parlor. The others trooped in after them, filling up the small room.

Mrs. Asaki was taken aback by the urn on the funerary table. She was expecting the usual: a ceramic container small enough to cup in the palm of her hand. But this was a wooden box of some sort—varnished, lacquered, handsome enough in its own way, but big enough to hold a potted plant.

“Americans don’t pick out the symbolic bones,” Sarah explained. “They keep all the ashes. That’s why it’s so big.”

“Ara maa,” Mrs. Nishimura said weakly.

“Granny, look! Auntie, look!” Eight-year-old Jun pointed to a red Japanese passport lying on the table among the flowers and fruits. “Big Sister had this taped right on the side of the box! Just like they pin notes on little kids in kindergarten.” He was clearly tickled by this comparison.

“I thought there’d be trouble getting her through customs,” Sarah said. “But the man at the airport was really, really nice about it.”

Everyone stood staring at the sturdy, outsized box.

“That’s a lot of ashes!” said Mr. Kobayashi from the back of the room.

Mrs. Nishimura turned to Mrs. Kobayashi. “Would you prefer to have the bones picked out properly? And placed in a more…ehh, fitting receptacle?”

“No, no.” Mrs. Kobayashi reached out and touched the box, as if to reassure her daughter within. “I don’t want her disturbed any further.”

“Maybe the Americans are right,” Mrs. Nishimura said softly. “The more we have of her, the better.”

Mrs. Asaki kept staring at the box, packed full of ashes by the gram. It was a stark reminder of the physicality of death. Her own time was drawing near.

“It’s somehow fitting, don’t you think?” said Mrs. Izumi. “It’s just like Big Sister.”

“Soh,” said Mrs. Nishimura. “She had such a presence, bigger and bolder than anyone else…” She laughed, her voice catching a little as she did so, and everyone laughed along with her. But the break in her voice had caught them unawares, and Mr. Kobayashi was heard to clear his throat.