The Snow Woman’s Daughter
WHEN I WAS a little girl, I thought my mother’s name was Yuki, which means snow. That was part of her name, but I didn’t learn the rest of it until the night my father died.
My mother left us on a slate-gray evening when I was five, with her namesake falling from the sky and piled high around the windows and doors. Awakened by raised voices, I watched through a tear in the curtain that shielded my sleeping mat as my mother wrapped her limbs in a shining, white kimono. As far back as I could remember, she had always worn the dark wool shifts that all mountain people wear, spun from the hair of the half-mad goats that give us milk and cheese. In her kimono she looked like a princess, or a queen. Her skin was paler than mine, and I am thought quite fair. Roku, the boy who lived on the northern crest, used to tease me when we were little, calling me “ghost girl” and “milk face.”
That night, my mother was so white, it was as if a candle shone within her breast. It made my eyes crinkle as I squinted through the thick cloth.
I saw her come toward me and I scrambled to return to my mat. She wasn’t fooled, but then, she had never been deceived by my tricks.
“Sekka,” she said, “I am going away.”
I sat up, dropping my pretense. “Where are you
