 There are many people who have no voice and are forgotten. This poem is one of the voiceless in our community. It's called Winter Holiday. Winter Holiday. Hirasai, his greetings are fleeting but authentic. Behind the counter, he prepares countless sushi. He operates at one remove. Those who understand will understand. At 16, apprenticed to the famed Edomata in Osaka, he was not allowed to touch the chef's knife. For three years, he washed dishes and swept the floor. Enter the kitchen with a clear mind. Everything in balance. Knife and hand, hand and feet, fish and rice, colors, textures, light and dark. After six years, he served his first customer. Remain faceless. Present ingredients as they are. Never tamper with them. At the end of the ninth year, he was given his own knife by the old master. One day, a fancy struck him. To get out of this narrow kitchen, the crowded alley, the small minded country. He made a wish like a child asking for a Christmas gift. To America, the blue California sky, Golden Gate Bridge, a blonde like Marilyn Monroe. He flew to San Francisco like a bird migrating. Prime rib and avocado bacon cheeseburger were great at first, but lacked delicacy. The sky was blue and transparent just as he imagined, but it made everything look washed out. The pagoda in Japan town like a toy. Mr. Wong at Sushi-e sponsored him for his green card. Cooks and waiters came and went, but all those years, he stayed with the boss out of Giri, a court of ethics. His days simple and uneventful worked hard all day. At night, he drank sake until he fell asleep in his small, tenderloin apartment. He only watched Japanese TV, got by with pigeon English. He didn't miss home, but missed the four seasons. White blossoms, typhoons, autumn pikes, New Year's Day rice cakes. In this city, days bled into weeks, months into years without markings. On his days off, he'd go to a casino in the Nevada Desert and bet his paycheck. Sometimes he was lucky. Some nights, heartache kept him awake, and he kept drinking to drown his pain. He never saw a doctor for 52 years. No insurance, no English. He lingered in the shadows. One day, he didn't show up at work. And the next day, and the day after. On the fourth day, Mr. Wong ordered the manager to knock down his apartment door. There, he lay on the bare bathroom floor, face down, half naked. Hirashi, New Year's Eve diners enter under the noren of sushi. Past a makeshift altar by the front door. A tiny table with citrus fruit on top of layered rice cakes. From a ceramic burner arises a thin breath of incense, vaulting over people returning to their business. I'd like to say one more thing, the best of luck, Francisco. Thank you.