Snapshots from the Iwasaki Family Album: The Founders of Mitsubishi

A wild tiger howls; the moon shines high above the mountains. The last line of an ancient Chinese poem is inscribed in ink on a hanging scroll by Japan’s industrial giant Iwasaki Yataro.

Parked my bike and walked back to the apartment. Normally I take my helmet off right away but today I kept it on in case someone knocks me to the pavement.

When my son was in elementary school in Tokyo, he had to weed the school grounds, cook a full-course meal and swim for more than an hour in a jellyfish-strewn ocean.

Others may run faster, but no one runs as frequently fast as this manga-loving salaryman.

My 77-year-old mother taps out e-mails on her iPhone no sweat, but she still asks me, “Will my e-mail address work on that computer?”

The deserted white apartment building tells its story floor by floor. The street level has only gaping open spaces where there were once floor-to-ceiling windows.

The traditional inn nestled amid the mountainous countryside offered all the luxurious comforts for which these old-style hotels are famous.

After 10 months at a U.S. boarding school, it’s as if the Japanese words stored in his brain have been replaced with English ones that flow forth freely every time he opens his mouth.

My friends in New York City laugh at me when I tell them of my latest fear: dying alone and not being discovered for weeks.

I got a lot of kudos recently for finishing the Tokyo Marathon, my first long race.

The letters on my nails have nearly grown out, but I can still read them.

The woman at the lost baggage counter at the Portland, Oregon, airport took down my information matter-of-factly and told me my luggage would be delivered overnight.

“Is it dangerous here?” my 12-year-old son asks me as we walk down a street in the East Village neighborhood of Manhattan

“What are you going to say if I don’t make it?” my son asked me before he left for a long-distance ocean swim required by his school.

On the first day of Golden Week, Japan’s string of national holidays that start in late April, I boarded the just reopened bullet train from Tokyo to the quake-struck northeast.

Imagine seeing your office building swept away in a wave and then spending all night on a freezing rooftop watching your beloved fishing boat on fire drifting back and forth in a murky ocean gone wild.

A surreal chorus of clipped buzzing noises pierced the silence on my rush hour commuter train one morning this week.

My mother’s golf pro called to tell her he was going home to Canada for two weeks. A server at a restaurant heavily frequented by expatriates told me foreigners were showing up with their suitcases and having one last meal before flying out.

As I sat down with my laptop that evening, some hours after the massive earthquake had struck Japan, my cellphone emitted a grating squeal.

A few weeks ago, I casually agreed to join a group of mothers who wanted to wear kimonos to our children’s elementary school graduation ceremony.