From the Judges:
“This is a masterly collection of artful vignettes concerning food and the relationship between an aging mother and her daughter, which also harmonizes life with nature. An iconic structure provides a loose backdrop for a warm, emotional glimpse at the closest of relationships. A central image is oyakodon (literally “parent and child”) — a rice bowl meal made with chicken and eggs. The shadows of aging and dementia are simultaneously woven as dark threads, contrasting the silver and golden threads of moon and eggs. The relationship is multi-layered and bittersweet, spanning years and the bridging of cultures, and finally coming full circle.”

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Togetsukyo Bridge in the Rain

We met at a restaurant by the Katsura River, ordered hot yudofu served in donabe pots, and spoke in hushed tones, spilling breath. It was late afternoon. The air pulsed, soaked and running over with light flakes of snow, slipping in the feeble sun. This was rain in its entirety—trees, flowers, sifting air. I watched my mother spoon matcha into a porcelain tea bowl.

She stopped recognizing me months ago, and yet, I couldn’t let go.

I sat across from her, browsing through dishes of wagashi. Sometimes she called my name, her voice a taut thread, as though the word musume would snap it in half. But it held firm—an anchor.

Moments passed. A waiter brought oyakodon on bamboo trays. My mother nodded—you-me bowl, she used to call it, meaning mother and daughter, or yummy, but always pronouncing yumi, my name.

We lingered in the restaurant, watching the falling rain hit the river in gleams. I asked my mother to write something in Japanese, a language I had let wash away during my years abroad, a language that sounded like water hitting the belly of a barque.

I watched her pen as it stirred, a dark shape, and her fingers, shading the page. I watched the picture letters turn silver, carrying the weight of snowflakes whisked wayward, the window of pure falling—words made from meaning: yuki, she wrote. Snow. Happiness.

Months later my mother slept alone on a bed as white as snow or fresh-cooked rice. I sat beside her. Our hearts throbbed, our eyes closed. Words rose like loaves of bread, growing lighter with every passing breath—aging.

Seasons gathered back up into the calendar. I thought of the moon crossing bridge: the full moon of a gold egg yolk, intensely flooding us—

Mother and daughter as Oyakodon.

Photo Credit: Ryutaro Tsukata

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Isabelle Wei is a writer and literary editor. She loves poetry, pastries, and painting, although not necessarily in that order. In her spare time, she enjoys writing and reading stories that reflect her love for the natural world.

For the full list of this year’s competition winners, click here.
For the original competition notice (with prize details), click here.