Ashe kusagaya
the indigo dyer
Somewhere between shore and vast pasture, the cicadas are a soundtrack for the dense heat of the day. We walk alongside the river, and I struggle to stay on our path—desperate to kick off my shoes and wade through the current, but the discomfort of wet jeans is enough of a hindrance.
I shadow my husband into an earthenware shop and survey the multitude of kiln-fired objects. Unctuous browns, faded greens, flashes of ochre, and cherry. It smells like dust and sun-kissed wood. The exposed beams of the ceiling and the floorboards creak. A wind-bell chimes.
The shop is all sliding windows and doorless thresholds. Vulnerable to the elements. I weave through the aisles, lingering over glazed pots, wide mugs, and misshapen dishes. Each breathtaking in their imperfection.
My husband laughs with the shopkeeper.
The wind-bell chimes.
I push further between the aisles, until I’m outside again, greeted by a wash of mountains and rows of verdant bushes.
There’s a cottage nearby where off to the side a woman is hanging up laundry. Dyed garments with irregular patterns of blues and white. She’s got red hair, a mighty contrast to the flapping sheets of indigo on clotheslines. I’m mesmerized by the vividity of it all. The flick of her wrists, the bend of her waist, the way her frizzy hair flops over her shoulder when she reaches down…
With my husband preoccupied, I slip away and follow the narrow path leading to the cottage. I rouse plumes of dirt while I walk, and a dragonfly accompanies me as I pass a sign. INDIGO-DYED TEXTILES. And I’m doubly intrigued.
The woman pauses as I approach. Her hands are large, and the joints are knobby for her age. Her forearms are stained a faint blue, and her nails are near black. Red curls are stuck to the sweat on her forehead.
“Hello,” she says, wiping her brow.
“Hi,” I say.
“Shop’s inside.”
I look at the cottage behind her and hesitate.
She smiles, secures the last sheet of her laundry, and I feel like I’m intruding.
“You’re more than welcome to browse.” She picks up her wicker basket and steadies it against her hip, and there’s something enticing about that—the angle, the confidence. I watch as she retreats before glancing over my shoulder.
I’m too far to hear the wind-bell chime.
I follow her inside, drawn to her blue.
I shadow my husband into an earthenware shop and survey the multitude of kiln-fired objects. Unctuous browns, faded greens, flashes of ochre, and cherry. It smells like dust and sun-kissed wood. The exposed beams of the ceiling and the floorboards creak. A wind-bell chimes.
The shop is all sliding windows and doorless thresholds. Vulnerable to the elements. I weave through the aisles, lingering over glazed pots, wide mugs, and misshapen dishes. Each breathtaking in their imperfection.
My husband laughs with the shopkeeper.
The wind-bell chimes.
I push further between the aisles, until I’m outside again, greeted by a wash of mountains and rows of verdant bushes.
There’s a cottage nearby where off to the side a woman is hanging up laundry. Dyed garments with irregular patterns of blues and white. She’s got red hair, a mighty contrast to the flapping sheets of indigo on clotheslines. I’m mesmerized by the vividity of it all. The flick of her wrists, the bend of her waist, the way her frizzy hair flops over her shoulder when she reaches down…
With my husband preoccupied, I slip away and follow the narrow path leading to the cottage. I rouse plumes of dirt while I walk, and a dragonfly accompanies me as I pass a sign. INDIGO-DYED TEXTILES. And I’m doubly intrigued.
The woman pauses as I approach. Her hands are large, and the joints are knobby for her age. Her forearms are stained a faint blue, and her nails are near black. Red curls are stuck to the sweat on her forehead.
“Hello,” she says, wiping her brow.
“Hi,” I say.
“Shop’s inside.”
I look at the cottage behind her and hesitate.
She smiles, secures the last sheet of her laundry, and I feel like I’m intruding.
“You’re more than welcome to browse.” She picks up her wicker basket and steadies it against her hip, and there’s something enticing about that—the angle, the confidence. I watch as she retreats before glancing over my shoulder.
I’m too far to hear the wind-bell chime.
I follow her inside, drawn to her blue.
Ashe Kusagaya (they/she) is a writer and zinester straddling two PNW states. They earned their BA in creative writing from California State University, Long Beach, and currently frequent Write Around Portland workshops. Her work explores intimacy and relationships from a biracial and queer perspective. You can find them on Instagram @mkashe_ or at https://bio.site/mkashe_
