When the Japan quake and tsunami hit, I started thinking about two Japanese girls I used to be pen pals with in grade school. Girls? Yikes. They’d be old ladies like I am now. I couldn’t conjure up the name of one of the girls, but the other’s name has stuck with me my whole life: Hitomi Imanaka. I remember the stationery she’d use when she wrote me: It was etched with one of those quintessentially Japanese androgynous smiling cartoon characters, and shellacked with stickers. Her English was rough (my Japanese was nonexistent) and her handwriting was shaky with large counters and bowls — very deliberate. I don’t remember what we wrote each other about, but if I had to guess: Pets, television, movies, school. I have her letters somewhere. I hope, as I continue my spring cleaning, I’ll run across them.
I searched Facebook and found a Hitomi Imanaka. I sent her a message, asking if she was my pen pal from ages ago. I mostly wanted to ask her where she lived and if she was okay.
It wasn’t the same girl.
At least you tried! It is odd when you can’t find someone from childhood, I know how that feels.