Mochi New Year's Eve requires steamed rice and a willing granddaughter. You must take it out warm, still steaming, but not so hot it might burn hands or fingers. The girl listens, a boy's shirt covering her belly swelling from chocolates and peppermints eaten that morning, while her parents slept in, unaware of her habit to huddle alone on the couch, not even a blanket against solitude. All her questions get answered because grandmother loves to teach, loves to talk almost as much as the younger self she sees by her side, eyes focused as if they were searchlights, and she, a lost boat between the swells of the ocean. She pounds the rice, then gives granddaughter her turn without any prompting, the two of them one mind, one body, one space for an afternoon. Only time, she says, only time and patience. They watch the rice turn glutinous, sticky beneath their hands, each grain lost, absorbed by its brethren. This is our tradition, she says, explaining again, repeating the lesson. This is our celebration. Someday, teach your children.