I do feel sorry for her in a way, I do go about my business more or less paying no attention to her in the corner like a holographic projection slowly but surely cleaning her china, enacting her process of tea making imagining that she’s at home in Kyoto making the day special for a non existent master, doing her duty.
At night she lays asleep talking lightly in Japanese having a mixture of dreams and nightmares. She rustles around disturbed by the moonlit windows and the police sirens that mill the streets. She’s not in Japan, she’s like a ghost from Japan but stuck here in a far off city not used to seeing Geisha wander make that tea and sleep with a smile.
She turned up like a flash memory, a miracle that I’ve tried to communicate with but she’s blank, a re-run of a life long dead long gone since 1890, if you take time and be quiet you can just hear outside the trees of her garden full wind bend the bows and the pick of a string instrument, meditating and lush till the rain and snow fall and the day is over.