I can almost smell the lilacs in the Hamuta's garden and the lemonade we would drink in late summer's afternoon.  The Hamutas lived in Japan for a long time and moved to America when Mr. Hamutas died.  In America they lived with Mrs. Hamuta's brother.  The two families shared one house in California.
My family, the Hansons lived in a small house.  I was next door to the Hamutas and I became friends with Iruni or Irene which is what her name was changed to when she came to America.  She was my best friend, and I got the special privilege of calling her by her Japanese name Iruni .
Iruni and I liked to make up stories together.  We often made illustration or puppets to tell the story.  Our stories were often about fantasies in either Japan or Germany where my family is from.
The Stories often reflected upon the World War II and how we felt about it, but in a fantasy setting.  Most of our young lives were greatly affected by World War II.  We would be made fun of because of our friendship.  I still don't get why people didn't like Iruni because she was Japanese or why people didn't like my Mom and Dad because they were German.  I was old enough back then to know why we were fighting and who we were fighting, but my friend and parents were still Americans.
I remember when I started asking questions about my womanhood, I was 12 and my best friend had invited me to a gathering at her house.  She did not say why just that her family would be celebrating and she wanted me to be there.  I when to the celebration and was surprise to learn that the friends of the Hamutas had no idea why they had been invited either.  They apparently all understood when Mrs. Hamutas brought out a tray of red beans and rice.  I was completely bewildered and did not get why they were all congratulating her on growing up.
I finally pulled Iruni aside and asked what the red rice was all about, as I was eating it.  She blushed and told me that the rice was to celebrate her first period.  Just then I choked on a bean and started gasping for air.  A friend of the family who was a doctor in Japan, helped me to breathe normally.
"Do you think I will ever be grow-up like you, Iruni?" I ask Iruni.
"What do you mean?  You're more mature then me." She reply humbly.
"I wish I was a woman."
"One day you and I will be."
"And we'll be old  cranky ladies together?"
"Oh, we won't be cranky just old."
"In that case being old sounds like fun, if I can be old with you!”
Iruni and I talked as we finish the rice and beans on our plate. The plates had come from their homeland and were made by one of their ancestors long ago and were

considered priceless. The plates had lilacs rim and colorful native birds painted in the center.  I was of course extremely careful with them.
It was December 7, 1941 and overnight it seem that the whole world  had turned upside down.  Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor when I was sleeping peacefully and so was America until we started the war.  The President was on the radio to say we were going to war and everyone was talking about it.   Most of the people were angry.
Iruni started only going by her English name and stopped drawing and writing about Japan.  She was no longer allowed to go to the pictures show because the owners had signs saying that Japanese immigrants were not allowed (just not so nicely).  Iruni became moody and depressed, which made me sad.
In a attempt to cheer up Iruni I suggested that we write a fairytale about two princess who were like us that were form different lands that had been fitting.  We got pretty far on the story.  And then Iruni family got word that they were going to an internment camp far away.  They could only take what they could carry and they would have to sell the house with lilacs.
As the time for her to leave became imminent the story became more and more close to our real lives.  The day she left, I made a promise to her that one day no matter what happened.  We would finish this story together.  
I was comforting and clear headed when saying goodbye to Iruni, but when I got home I was anything but.  Hardly in the doorway I began to cry fiercely.  My mother checked on me to see how I was handling  Iruni departure.
She said, "I know it's tough, but growing up means that you will feel loss at times."  
I retorted back, "In that case, I don't want to grow up!"
My mother sighed and said, "You don't not have a choice sweetie, You will grow up."
My family move from California because my dad's boss had to close the store that my dad worked at.  My dad's boss was Japanese and he was sent to a internment camp.  The place that we moved to had a alien feel to me and I missed my old home.
The people in my new town were meaner to the immigrants and hate new comers.  One boy in particular made this quite clear.  He was the newspaper boy and he had the audacity to read the letters that I sent to Iruni and then he would tear them up.  I told him to stop and my parents stopped getting the newspaper, but he didn't stop.
I continued writing my letters and giving them to my neighbors.  They stopped mingling them for me when they learned that I was sending them to a Internet camp.  I started using the public Mail box and finally stopped when my home was vandalized by people who hated the Japanese.  But I sill wrote letters to Iruni, I just didn't mail them.  All the letters I wrote were save in hope that I could give them to Iruni when the war was over.
My life form that point on my life went by vary quickly.  After I graduated from high school I was married.  I had three children and became a published author.  My husband died in the Vietnam War.  My children grew up and were married.  I decided to live out the rest of my days in California where I was born.
    I come across Iruni again when looking  for a smaller home in California.  In a photograph of a house I saw in the dining room.  And those one-of-a-kind plate that  belonged  to Iruni family.  I contacted the family that owned the house, who turned out to Iruni's daughter.  I was devastated, to learn that five years earlier her mother had died from heart disease.  We talked about Iruni and how she coped with the stress of leaving everything to go to the internment camp with painting.  The only reason Iruni stopped sending letters was that her mother wouldn't allow her to, because she  her to move on.  Iruni's daughter gave me the address to the cemetery where her mother was buried.
    When I got there I felt a roller coaster of emotions.  At first I was mad at Iruni for dying.  Second I was mad at the people who separated us.  Finely I was mad at myself for not being there for her.
Finally I stopped crying when I felt Iruni overwhelming presence, she wanted to write with me.  So we began to finish the story that had linked us stronger then time.  The story was finished as the wind began to blow the lilacs laying on her grave and a butterfly landed on the paper with approval.

The End