The late Mayumi Inaba (1950-2014) makes a posthumous debut-in-translation with the heartstring-tugging, haunting Mornings Without Mii, originally published in Japan in 1999. The memoir lovingly chronicles her 20-year-relationship with her "precious partner"--her beloved cat, Mii. That "end of summer, 1977," Inaba first heard the cries before discovering "a little ball of fluff. A teeny tiny baby kitten" suspended high up on a junior high school fence: "It was obvious that she... had been put there deliberately out of malice or mischief." Inaba immediately takes home the starved, flea-riddled feline--"a calico, with white, black and tan stripes... and a belly that was pure white."
In the two decades that follow, Mii (named for her high-pitched mii-mii, temporarily shortened to Mimi, truncated further to Mii) remains the single constant in Inaba's life. Inaba dissolves her marriage, moves multiple times (finding a pet-friendly rental as her top priority eventually leads to buying a home), and transforms her career, eventually becoming a prize-winning poet and writer. As Mii matures--a helpless baby, an almost-mother, a free-roaming adventurer, an affectionate greeter, a cherished presence--Inaba experiences her own metamorphoses, claiming her independence, her voice, her place in the world.
Inaba, nimbly translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori, writes in precise, affecting verse, but when emotions overwhelm, she resorts to the multi-layered promises of poetry: "So let's sleep/ So as not to hear your departing footsteps," she writes, confronted by Mii's mortality. Grateful readers will recognize Inaba's visceral connection and find deep comfort here. --Terry Hong