The Hundred-Year-Old Bowl

By Arlan Gerig

I’m focused, minding my own business, quietly eating my breakfast of rice, miso soup, and grilled salmon in the dining room. It’s what I do every morning while studying my book of ancient Japanese history.

I’m so entranced that I almost miss the crackling female voice. “Why aren’t you married yet, Airi? At your age, your grandmother was pregnant and working in the rice paddies.”

I choke on my rice and glance around. My younger brother Yuuma plays his video game in the adjoined living room. My mother hurries past while getting ready for work. My father has already left. I’m alone.

“I’m only seventeen,” I mutter.

“Nonsense! She married at sixteen.”

The voice seems to come from my rice bowl. The hand-painted rice workers shift and resemble eyes blinking. The watery grass painted below them widens like a mouth.

“Why haven’t your parents arranged a marriage for you yet?”

There’s no doubt. My bowl is talking to me.

I set down my chopsticks. “This has to be some kind of trick. Is that you, Yuuma?”

“Yuuma?” the bowl responds, looking briefly at him. “Your brother is still over there, my dear Airi.”

I lean down to examine the bowl at eye level. “This is no trick, is it.” More of a statement than a question. I don’t have time to be sidetracked from my studies. Still, I’m curious. “How can you talk?”

“Ah, you’re trying to change the subject. Something your mother would do.”

“You’ve got to admit that a talking rice bowl is… unique.”

“Another thing you failed to learn from your grandmother. Most of her ancient bowls and beds talked.”

I gulp. The legend of tsukumogami. “I know now why my parents got rid of all their old items,” I snap. “This must be your hundredth birthday.”

“Three days ago,” the bowl says. The grass smirks, if that’s possible. A talking rice bowl didn’t seem possible an hour ago, either. Then it hits me.

“Three days? You’ve been watching us for three days?”

The bowl chuckles. “I had to observe the family, see the dynamics. You don’t think just anyone can hear me, do you?”

“Am I the only one?”

“Observe. Hey, Yuuma! Yuuuuuma!”

My brother is so engrossed in his game that a bus going through the living room wouldn’t faze him, but she made her point. My mother, however, pokes her head into the kitchen.

“Airi, did you call me?”

My stomach twists. “No, Mother.”

She disappears and the bowl shakes with a frown. “She shouldn’t be working. She needs to be home, keep the house clean and functioning.”

I bristle. “She likes her work. Don’t be so critical.”

“Oh, your grandmother would have a fit if she saw that! Good thing she passed on when she did. Your father should control your mother better.”

I’m liking this bowl less and less, even though it’s my favorite of Grandmother’s things.

I look into the bowl’s painted worker eyes. “You have Grandmother’s soul?”

It laughed. “Her soul has passed on. I have her memories and personality.”

My nose wrinkles. “I thought hundred-year-old items coming to life was only a legend.”

“Since your grandmother made and painted me, I have absorbed her memories and attitudes. I was precious to her, but now I belong to you.”

It twirls and faces me again. I pick up spilled rice and place it back into the bowl. “So why can my mother hear you?”

“Your mother is your grandmother’s daughter. The women in her bloodline can hear me. No one else can.”

I try to remember more of my grandmother’s stories, hoping other things don’t suddenly come to life.

The bowl’s eyes wrinkle again. “What a waste for a beautiful young woman to study our history. You don’t need it to be married and care for children. Any likely suitors yet?”

I sigh and focus on my grilled salmon, although I’ve lost my appetite. And my ability to focus. “You are like my grandmother. I always left the room when she criticized my mother for wanting to be more than a housewife.”

The grassy mouth frowns deep enough to crack the base. “And you’re following the same path. Education should be reserved for men alone.”

I clench my fist. “I’m not ready to get married. There are many successful women in the workplace today.”

The bowl screeches. “Hiroko! Come to the kitchen right away!”

I cover my ears, and my mother appears in the doorway. She is pale, but her eyes blaze fire. “Airi, are you imitating your grandmother? That’s not funny.”

The bowl hops once toward her, and she gasps. “Hiroko.” The bowl glares. “Your mother wouldn’t approve of you working outside your home, but worse is teaching your daughter to do the same!”

My mother looks sharp in her navy and white dress, but her hands shake badly, and she pales even more.

“Th-this is what I want for my life, what I enjoy,” she says, her voice small. Her wide eyes flit between me and the bowl. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, and I want Airi to choose her own path.”

The bowl hops across the table, scattering rice. “For thousands of years, Japanese women have been content to raise families and keep beautiful, structured homes. You disgrace your mother and generations of women by your selfish lifestyle!”

I scowl but say nothing. My mother steps closer, fists at her side, raising her voice. “That’s not true! She chose her path, but mine is different. Mother, God bless her, never accepted that. You… you’re nothing but a bowl!”

In one swift action, I grab my book and sweep the bowl off the table. It shrieks before the satisfying crash that sends rice skittering across the floor.

It’s followed by a welcome silence.

“Let’s clean that up before we leave,” my mother says with a slight smile. I smile back and nod.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arlan Gerig has stories published in Havok, Every Day Fiction, and the Animal Kingdom anthology. Arlan recently fulfilled a goal: a Bahamas mission trip to help Haitian refugees. When he’s not reading a great book, writing flash fiction, or bringing wizard apprentice Gwynfar to life in a YA fantasy novel, Arlan enjoys walking his two pit mixes around his Ohio neighborhood.

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