Motoko

Here is another update on Motoko-chan. We talked on the phone not long after her packages arrived.
Motoko-chan was born in 1930 (so she is 78, not 60-something as I originally thought). She lived in Hiroshima when the bomb dropped. All she had to say about that was "it was terrible". I'll bet. Then they shipped her off to the countryside in the Kansai province.
Piecing that together with some other things, like the fact that she has only been in the States for 14 years, and was in England before that in "a sanitarium" (at some point), I would gather that living through the bombing of Hiroshima was rather horrible and life changing. Yet, here she is. In love with America and Americans. Go figure.
That would explain Motoko-chan's (if it is acceptable for me to be so familiar with her) poor English. My gosh, she came here when she was 64. If I had to speak in a new language and learn it well at the age of 64 -- well! Should I be so spry.
What humbles me is that she chose me to connect with after all these years. Thirteen hours on a plane. That's all. And she decided I was one she could connect with. Am I the only "young" one who would take the time to listen to and speak with her? I know she has friends, or at least acquaintances, at the Senior Center in the town in which she lives.
I'm scared of the responsibility. Each time I "collect" a person, I seem to let the ball drop and I know it disappoints them. It disappoints me.
So, what do I do with the responsibility she's passed on to me? What about the futon and the other items? Why does this haunt me? (Okay, I know why -- rhetorical question.)

I still have a honking big box in my [now dry] basement and I just don't know what to do with it!