Blooming branches bobbed in the breeze beside the stream. Haru stood next to the small cherry tree on the bank and thought about how he could incorporate the lovely pink blossoms into his poem. He'd crafted the verses while gently stirring and prodding the pulp with a bamboo rake. Little wisps of ink floated through the slats of the basket and dissipated into the water. His heart felt light, but his tired arms felt like noodles and his stomach rumbled. Behind him came the rhythmic whack of sticks against a low wood table where his aunties were beating used paper into pulp.

"Is that one clean yet?" asked his favorite auntie .

"Yes, Oba," he replied.  

Haru set his bamboo rake aside and used all of his weight to pull the heavy basket from the stream. Cold rivlets of water ran off the lumpy contents soaking his bare feet.

"Give the basket a shake," said his other auntie, aways stern. "The last batch was too wet."

Though Haru fancied himself no longer a child, his arms shook' they were so exhausted after only a few hours of work. At twelve he weighed almost as much as his aunties, but it was all still baby fat. He didn't have the arm strength and physical stamina of his father yet. 

"Ok," said Haru but he couldn't lift the basket. He tilted it from side to side with little effect. Determined to prove his usefulness, he sat on his bottom and tried to lift the basket with his feet.

"Haru, no!" Both his aunties turned in time to see him drop the basket of washed pulp on top of himself. They tisked and scolded him, pulling him out from under the mess.

"Look what you've done! Now the pulp is dirty again. Put it back in the stream." 

Haru dolefully picked the pulp up off the ground. It was covered in dirt and grass. He lugged the basked back to the stream and nearly fell in setting it back into the water. He mixed the pulp with his rake to get it clean.

"Hurry up."

"Yes, Oba." Haru pulled and tugged but he couldn't lift the basket up the bank. His foot slipped on wet stones and he somersaulted into the water. His loose shirt tangled around his head and he trashed about, unable to stand up. 

He felt the firm grip of his favorite auntie around his arm and suddenly he was on the bank again. With her other hand she had grabbed the basket. Haru wasn't even as strong as his aunties yet, let alone his father. His eyes teared up. He had wanted to help so he could earn a sheet of lovely paper to write his poem on. 

"Are you getting tired Oi?" she asked. Haru nodded. He let his auntie strip off his wet shirt and trousers and wrapped him in a big, dry robe. She set him close beside her for warmth and handed him a red bean filled rice cake. He sniffed feeling sorry for himself and nibbled on the cake. He was so hungry and it tasted so good. As he ate he admired the drying sheets of paper laid out on the screens. 

His auntie looked lovingly down at her nephew. "Why don't you tell us the poem you plan to write on your paper. I think you've worked enough today to earn a few sheets." Haru nodded and smiled.