Soon you’ll be six years old ! When you were at the Kindergarten, you got good at drawing and would bring your drawings home. My favorite was one of us holding hands with big smiles on our faces. It’s a comfort to think that we were happy then.

You’re so bright. You probably already know why your Mother and Father don’t live together. We talked about what went on at our house a lot before we left, when you were four and we’d just come back from the shelter. You remembered so much I was surprised. It must have been hard for you, but thank you for coming with me. I promise we’ll be happy.

There are both happy and painful things in life. In happiness, we feel like the sun is shining on us and we’re full of energy. When things are painful, we move into shadow. It’s dark, and we feel weak. Back in our old house, we slipped imperceptibly into the dark and barely ever saw the sun again. I was so ashamed, all I could do was cry. When I did, you would bring me a towel to hearten me or line up your toys to play with me. It was moving to see how adult you acted.

The world is wide and full of wonderful things. I want you to enjoy them, innocently as a child, laughing without guile. That’s why I took you out from the little world without sun where we were trapped.

Up till now, I’ve put you through things no child needs to go through. So from now on, I’d like to think we’re going to enjoy things to the full.

If you look at flowers and insects, you know that even the smallest plants and animals have life and for all we know, a heart. I want you to know that it’s OK to play with those younger than you, and that you should take special care for those who are smaller and weaker than you are. Learn as much as you can and grow up quick and strong. Watching you grow tells me how good it is to have you here.

Let’s be close, enjoy everything that is out there and take on the world, wherever it leads us.

“I’m leaving right now”
From Tōhoku to Kanto, my mother dropped everything and left immediately.

When I became pregnant with my second child, I was struck with such fits of vomiting that I couldn’t manage my daily life. Maybe if I lived alone, I might have been able to, but my first child was there. And my daughter was the image of health, brimming over with energy. I couldn’t very well take care of her with me shutting myself up in the toilet with repetitive attacks of vomiting. Like most small children, her concern over me was patent. She quickly fell quiet and played by herself. Her bravery brought tears to my eyes, but my constantly churning gastric juices left little time for tears. I didn’t see how my daughter and I could get through this, so I called my mother for help.
“I can’t take it any more” I said.

Mom left to join me as soon as she got off the phone. Once she arrived at my house, she started washing clothes, attacked the dirty dishes, ran the vacuum cleaner, and while playing with my daughter, straightened up whatever fell within her reach.

At the time, I was the head of a circle of friends who’d formed a support group for bringing up children. We were in the middle of managing a big event. My mother stepped right in to pinch hit. In one fell swoop, she took away all my cares.

“If you need rest, that’s all you can do: so rest”

Surrounded by the familiar sounds of her Tōhoku dialect, I was able to carry on with my pregnancy.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble”

“This is no trouble for a parent, so who are you talking about,” my mother answered, as if it was evident. “Your father told me to get here as quick as I could”

My mother stayed by my side until my health stabilized, and then I went to my parent’s house until I had the baby. With all the support I got from my parents, I had an easy delivery.

“I want to do something to show my gratitude,” I said in all honesty to my father. So many things that I would have been embarrassed to say when I was younger, now seemed to come easily. Holding the newly-born child in his arms my father said, “The most wonderful thing you could do for your mother and I would be to do your best to bring up your two children.”

So now I throw all my life into my children. That may sound like an exaggeration, but I hope to be worthy of all the love that I’ve received.

“Mom, I’m going out to buy you some carnations.”
“Really! I can’t wait to see them!”

On Mother’s Day when I was little, I’d always tell my Mother that I was heading out to buy her some carnations as I was leaving the house. But I’d go off and play with my friends till the end of day and completely forget about buying anything.

“Yū-kun, did you get the carnations?” Mom would ask when I got home. And that’s when I’d shudder to remember why’d I’d gone out that day in the first place and have to think up some lie.

“The carnations were all sold out.”

In the face of such a blatant lie, my mother would always just answer with a laugh, “Oh really? Well then, I’ll look forward to seeing them next year.”
Whether next year or the year after next, the same thing would happen. I’d play, forget and tell the same lie.

On the other hand, my mother never forgot my birthday. She also came to all my soccer matches and wore out her vocal chords cheering for the team, a first-line mother. Even after I’d left home and was living by myself, my mother continued to support me. Since I was addicted to the mikan oranges they grew in our region, she’d send me boxes of them. When I protested that I had no way to repay her kindness, she just laughed and shook her head.

Around 23 years old, I became more stable. I finally showed my affection for those 23 years of love by buying her 23 red carnations, one for each year.

“Mom, thank you for these 23 years. I’m sorry the flowers are so late.”
“Oh! This year the carnations weren’t sold out. That’s wonderful isn’t it!” she said to me, laughing all the while. In spite of myself, this brought tears to my eyes. “Yes, it is,” I answered.

My Mom’s the best in the world.

In late June, I suddenly received this mail from my father back in Shizuoka:
“I’ve got something important to talk to you about, so let’s go get a drink together.”

Since I’d left home ten years ago, I saw my parents just a few times each year. When I got this note from my father, I got so anxious that I called my mother to ask if anything had happened to him. But my mother just said, “No. I wonder what it’s all about. I have no idea.” She seemed as much at a loss as I was.

The note worried me. Since there was no reason to beg off, I set a date to meet my father on the 15th of July in front of the Minamiza in Kyoto. As far as I could remember, it would be the first time in my life that the two of us were going out drinking together.

Kyoto was sweltering that evening. I was mopping the sweat away while waiting at the Minamiza. My Father showed up shortly.

“Thanks for waiting. Why don’t we go straight to the bar.”

No sooner said then he was on his way, laughing to himself and saying, “Back in the day, I often used to entertain at this place.” He led me to a small restaurant in Gion.

We were seated and our beer had been poured, so I thought we were going to get to the heart of the matter, but the important subject was not forthcoming. There was talk of my mother being difficult, plans for retirement, …my father kept chuckling away, speaking of this, that and nothing. It used to be that when I had something serious to tell my father, I would beat around the bush speaking of this and that, but down to the bitter end that night, there was no sign of anything important he needed to tell me.

We spent about two hours together. My Father was in high spirits when he left to catch his express train back to Shizuoka. I was half-relieved and half-freaked out, perplexed enough to feel like I needed to call my mother back again.

“Well then, for your father seeing you must have been what was important, don’t you think?” she said.

My father had raised two children and was about to retire. Perhaps talking to his son, who was now a man of the world, about what had been and what was to come, the this and that of it, while getting mildly drunk was not just a pleasure but an important story for my father. I’d gone off from home to take up my life elsewhere. How many more times would I be able to see my father? So for both myself and my father, that time spent together, the time itself, was as precious as it was irreplaceable. This is what our summer’s evening in Kyoto led me to think.

“Your stomach aches again? You know, if you say that every morning, people will stop believing it’s true. Then when it really hurts, no one will help you. Now get up and get ready to go.”

From kindergarten through first grade, for 4 years, it was the same every day. My daughter would complain of stomachaches and refuse to get dressed. Even if I drove her to the kindergarten, she wouldn’t get out of the car. When it came time for us to separate, she’d burst into tears, and I’d be stuck with her at the doorway for twenty or thirty minutes. Back in the car, I’d bemoan my own fate, try not to see my daughter following me and coldly leave her in her tracks. I’d be filled with guilt. “All those happy students; why was it only my daughter…” I’d think over and over again. In elementary school it was the same thing. Every day I’d take her to school, to the doorway or all the way to her classroom, and every day she would make a scene when I left.

When I asked her why she hated school so much, she said, “I don’t hate school. I just don’t want you to leave. I always want to be with you.” When I heard my daughter say this, I was suddenly filled with regret. Until now, she hadn’t said anything like that, just complained of stomach pains. I really felt that I’d failed her, that I should have understood all this much sooner.

Around about that time, my daughter was reading picture book called “Genki-san kara no tegami”. It’s the story of a mother who while in the hospital wrote letters to her daughter in the name of “Genki-san” to keep her spirits bright. I decided to do the same kind of thing. Because she’d liked the book, I thought she’d quickly get in the habit of checking the mailbox each day when she came home from school.

I wrote a short letter to my daughter and put it in the mailbox.

“Dear Yuna, thank you for checking the mailbox everyday. You’re going to school everyday now. And you’ve been helping out a lot around the house. Your mother’s been so happy. From Genki-san”

When my daughter came home, she found the letter and seemed to be crying while she read it. Though it may seem strange, she said she herself didn’t understand why she was crying. I believe it’s because I had finally accepted my daughter’s distress, and it made up a little for all my blindness. After that my daughter gradually adjusted to school and was able to go there by herself. Now she’s a sixth grader, and until this day checking the mailbox is part of her daily routine.

“Girls, your omelette is served!” That’s what I said to my 2 girls 12 years ago.

That year my wife passed away due to illness. And that’s when I really began to take care of my daughters. For a while I was knocking back and forth between work and home problems, talking about home at work & rethinking work at home. It was difficult reconciling the two, and that would irritate me. I got short-tempered and would yell at my girls for any reason, especially when my older daughter was in fifth grade. She’d avoid me and ended up spending a lot of time shut up in her room.

Time went on this way till one day when I was cleaning my room, I happened to find several pages of recipes in my wife’s dresser drawer. Most likely, she intended to make these dishes for the girls when she got back from the hospital.

Looking at the recipes, the only one that seemed to be within my grasp was a rice & cheese omelette. I made it on my next day off. Neither it’s shape nor it’s taste could rival my wife’s cooking, but so be it. “Girls, your omelette is served!” I said, placing my somewhat burnt offering before my two daughters.

My elder girl could barely keep a straight face. It looked like she was laughing.

“How is it? It’s good, isn’t it,” I asked my younger daughter.

“So our father can cook too.” she answered, as if it were a joke. That’s when things started to get better. It was slow going, but spending more time doing simple things together became important to all of us. Now my daughters are both off living on their own.

“What’ll we eat?” It’s my elder daughter’s day off from the local elementary school where she prepares lunches.

“Since we have eggs, how about an omelette?”

The same brusque replies as always. But sitting and eating with my two daughters is now my treasure.

From the day my parents divorced, my mother’s job was to be a father.
My job was to be a little mother.
Our child was my 5 year-old brother.
We lived desperately.
I don’t think I ever had the time to be rebellious.
I made meals for everyone, clutching a recipe book in my other hand.
If you put bean sprouts in water, they’re good for another meal: I practiced home economics.
Since I couldn’t earn any money while I was a student, I studied like my life depended on it.
The year I was first in my class, I secretly cried.
My brother loved soccer and made his mark there. The house filled up with trophies.
When there were Athletic Meets and Culture Day’s at school, my mother had to work. At lunchtime everyone went to sit with their mothers, but it was just the two of us.

“Why?” I always wondered. We were only three people. Why was it so hard to get together as a family?
Sometimes it made me cry.
Look at my brother. When his friends were playing catch and other games with their fathers, he’d be by himself throwing the ball against the wall.
But I couldn’t tell my mother how lonely we were.
My mother never looked unhappy. She’d always be smiling when she came home. And without fail, she would give us both a hearty greeting.

The time the three of us did spend together as a family was such a joy.
Well, we all wanted it to be a joy, but we were really struggling with our situation.
The truth is I wanted my Mom to be there when I was running in the relay and to have her show up at the classroom on Parent’s Day.
My brother was always muttering about how he didn’t have a father and wanted to know why.
I was lonely and wished someone was there when I came home.

Now, it’s 15 years later. And the day finally came when my mother could stop being the father.
That was the day that I stopped being the little mother.
My mother remarried and is so happy now.
My new father is quite old but seems much nicer than my real father.
Since my brother thinks so too, maybe he’s a good person.
So I’ll wait and see, and go back to being a kid again.
Bye-bye “Little Mother”

The little girls’ batteries begin to run down after eight at night. You can measure the younger one’s fatigue by how much she cries. As for her full of energy older sister, she survived today’s kindergarten, but now she’s run out of juice and is sleeping on the sofa. Mom’s the one who’s supposed to get them both upstairs to bed. After a 10 kilo and then a 17 kilo freight transfer to the second floor, Mom’s ready to give it up, but when she comes back to the living room, there’s another child who’s hurriedly taken over the couch and is now lying on it with his eyes shut. “Go to bed !” No surprise there: another 24 kilo load would put quite a strain on Mom’s chassis.

Mama knows how hard you’ve been trying to be a good older brother to your two little sisters.

She knows how hot it was today from the sweat marks when you took off your backpack.

She knows how you let go of my hand and turned away when your younger sister started to cry. And that you were trying to be patient but unintentionally hit your sister when you swung your arm in frustration.

Your mother knows that her right and left arms were commandeered as pillows for your sisters and that’s why you’re sleeping alone with your back turned towards her. And she suspects you’ve got your eyes narrowed to slits to keep track of what Mama is doing.

It’s only when I get busy that it’s difficult to give you the attention you want. With only two arms, Mom can’t hug three kids at the same time. The son on the couch knows this full well.

Of course if he’s “sleeping”, then he has to get carried upstairs, and there’s no way not to hug him in the process… and maybe that’s what he needs.

She’s picked him up. “You’re always trying hard to do your best, aren’t you…”
“No,” he whispers in a small voice.

So, he is awake after all.

Quietly by his ear, “And what face are you making now? I think I know !!”

Halfway up the stairs the 24 kilo boy’s body suddenly goes limp and gets even heavier.

There was a band that debuted in 1988 called the Ulfuls. Dad was a fan. The net result of my childhood up to the age of five spent listening to the Ulfuls in my father’s car was the ability to sing their song, “Guts da ze”.

As father and daughter living through a young girl’s puberty, we avoided the kind of “Don’t wash your underwear with the rest of the laundry” rebellion common to most families, largely by lying, and came through unscathed. However, my second year of high school created so much stress for me that I had trouble keeping the act up. Did my father sense what was going on? He never asked about my problems. If I think back about it now, I can see that by treating me as though everything was OK, he was showing his affection. But at the time, I thought he never asked because he didn’t care, and I openly showed my disgust. As for the Ulful, as much as I’d liked them, I stopped listening to their music.

Years later, after I’d left home, I discovered on the internet that the Ulful were giving a concert. They’d become an unpleasant memory for me, but I invited my father to the concert. My father was happy to go. The day of the show I came early and watched out for him, finally seeing him arrive dressed in a suit. For the first time I realized that coming to a concert with me, despite a day of hard work, was part of my father’s kindness of heart, just like not questioning me during high school.

On the train home, we spoke and laughed more than in the past. I’m not someone who easily thanks people, but words aren’t the only way. If you’re clumsy with words, but cherish another’s kindness, you naturally watch over the other’s feelings. One day when I get married, we’ll fill the hall with the sound of the Ulful. That’s my way of showing my thanks.

I suddenly became the mother of a 10 year-old, American boy.
Not a blood relation, but a foster parent.

He was cute for the first month, but from there on, he plunged into rebellion.
He was difficult and emotionally unstable.
How many times did I think I should to stop being a foster parent?
When I thought of giving over my role to a social worker, the words stuck in my throat and I couldn’t go through with it.
Our mud-slinging went on for a half a year, till that fateful day: Mother’s Day.
He’d never called me mother.
As if that was reserved for the woman who had left him; because they shared the same blood and there was a special love or bond between them.
Who did he think I was, this person who didn’t even look like him?
The hired help who washed his dirty baseball uniforms? A teacher’s aide who tutored him late into the night? Or maybe just some complaining meddler.

The following morning, there were candles by the side of the bed spelling the word “family” that danced before my eyes. My foster son had gathered the candles beforehand and stealthily placed them by my bed while I slept at night.
Knowing nothing of weeping for joy, maybe he sought to escape any confusion.
Days later at his therapy session, he made a drawing. It was a picture of him, my husband and myself walking together. Looking at the letters through eyes blurred by tears I could see that “1, 2, 3: Family” was written on the drawing.

Eight months later, a distant relative took charge of him.
The fourteen months I spent with him were filled with intense up and downs.
What I most remember is finally overcoming his mistrust and the young boy I loved in the hope of restoring his childhood. The therapist told me that I was the only foster mother who had not abandoned him.
And then it was time for us to part. When I couldn’t find any words, he broke the silence by saying, “You’re my favorite.” After continuously refusing my hugs and signs of affection, he clung to me now with tears in his eyes.
We were parent and child.
Trials of emotion and perseverance had led him to look on me as a parent, a bond beyond blood and names.

My father left our home when I was 15.
I wonder if he remembers what happened at the merry-go-round at Takarazuka Familyland, the place we liked to go to so much !?
We joined the long line and just when it was my turn to get in, my father ran in front to grab a big horse for me. Mother yelled to us from outside, “Be careful don’t run!” My father put his arms around me and lifted me onto the tallest horse. Then he sat on a much smaller one beside me. “Hey, looks like these horses are oyako, doesn’t it. Hahahaha….”

My father’s eyes were smiling warmly. The merry-go-round started round, and the music began to play. After going around once or twice, I felt like a hero. While the merry-go-round circled, my mother waited at the exterior waving her hand each time I went by. This was oddly pleasing and maybe a little embarrassing. At the time, I was innocent and docile.

I was a toddler, then a young boy, and now an adult.
My father knows nothing of my life as an adult.
The fact that he has no interest or concern for our family, well, to tell the truth, I find it heartbreaking.

My father liked to drink.
In TV melodramas, whenever there’s a scene where a father and son go out drinking together, it makes me feel so envious. I’d like to go out with that father of mine and enjoy a night drinking together. I’d like to talk to him not just as a father and son. I want to spend time together as 2 adults.
Yes, I’d really like to meet my father.

At the time of the Tanabata Festival, our daughter who’s a third grader brought home some of the strips of paper used to add wishes to the festival’s bamboo decorations. We could read “To be together” written carefully on each one.

Five years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had an operation and chemotherapy, and it was long and hard trial, both physically and spiritually. Luckily, the medicine worked, and thanks to the support I got from my family, I was able to fully recover. The illness has not recurred and I’m living a healthy life.
But then last September at my regular checkup, the doctors had some results that suggested it was back. They did a much more detailed examination. The complete results took a month to return, and I think that month was the worst of everything.

Honestly, I didn’t think I could stand going through therapy again.
I felt that all my emotional resources were spent, and that basically from the start, excluding being a mother, I’ve always been just one more weak person. I was so thankful when the results came back negative. From the very bottom of my heart, I drew a long breath of life. Nonetheless, no one can promise there will be no more tests, nor how they would turn out. I count my days, try to be strong, and have decided to live my life with my feet flat on the ground.

Just at the time of these last tests, my daughter announced that she wanted to be a doctor and help the ill. I felt both love and pride. Yet, her choice certainly came from the experiences of her mother’s illness, and in this I felt sorry for my daughter.
And then at Tanabata, a classmate misread the writing on my daughter’s slip of paper as stonecutter instead of doctor. She was indignant. I laughed and laughed when I heard about it, until my daughter got mad about that too.

Of course, at this point my daughter’s future is a total unknown.
Whatever path she chooses, I want to be there to cheer her on.
Doctor, stonecutter or whatever….

Last spring, I moved far from my hometown to live with my new husband in Miyazaki. After much agonizing, I gave up my teaching job of the last 20 years: a big decision.
“I’ve packed this full of your favorite things,” my father said on my day of departure as he handed me a package of Shizoka mikan. I said good-bye to my parents at the airport. Eating my beloved mikan on the airplane, they were more bitter than sweet.

Fortunately, I found a new teaching job in Miyazaki. But I was unable to adapt to all the tremendous changes, and my heart hurt so much I had to visit the Department of Psychosomatic Medicine at the hospital.

One night, I got an email from my father.
Unlike my mother who never bothers to type in a subject line, my father’s were always there and always precise. Despite being a lazybones, at seventy he led a daily battle against aging eyesight and continued to send me email. I read tonight’s subject and it just said, “Yukari”. It seemed ominous and I already had tears in my eyes when I started reading the letter.
“Today your father took his bicycle for a ride and road for 20 kilometers. As always, I’m feeling fine. How’s my little Yukari doing? I’ll send you some more mikan…”
Wait a minute! This letter has nothing to do with the subject Yukari ! I cried all the harder for that. But having parents far away who think and care so much about me, called me back to myself: “C’mon, Yukari, make more of an effort!”

I replied to my father’s mail asking, “Papa, why did you name me Yukari?”
When I got his return mail he wrote, “Because you’re as beautiful as the actress Hoshino Yukari” …so my father wanted an actress not a teacher for a daughter? This was such a joke it made me laugh.

Some days later, one of my co-workers asked what my favorite thing to eat was.
“I like the little mikans they have in Shizuoka. They’re sweet and small and easy to eat.” The next day when I got to work I was in for a shock.
“What is this!? Looks like a giant mikan!”
Center stage on top of my desk stood a magnificent mikan that was larger than my head. The co-worker I’d spoken with the day before started laughing and explained,
“That’s our local specialty from here in Miyazaki. The world’s biggest mikans. Your mikans from Shizuoka are small, sweet and delicious, but this Miyazaki mikan is big enough to feed everyone. We can all split it up, eat it together and have a good time. We hope you’ll learn to like things Miyazaki style!” My co-worker was so bright and inviting, I could only smile through my tears. Just like breaking bread with my co-workers, we split up the giant mikan and ate it, and I finally felt I was part of my new teaching team. Eating that giant mikan had woken me up, so I’m sending one to my father. The fruit that shows I’ve put down roots here.

Our sons love grilled fish. When there’s grilled fish lined up on the table, the boys are bright and happy. Getting the small bones out so they won’t get caught in anybody’s throat is inevitably mother’s work; though digging around in fish meat isn’t my favorite sport. This said, when I’m clumsy about flaking fish off the bone, I always remember my grandfather.

When I was a child, he was the one who prepared my fish. Unlike me, he was proficient and deft. He’d put the fish he’d prepared in a plate and pass it to me. It was so easy to eat that way. And of course at the time I found all this natural. Now that I have my own children and I’m fixing their fish, I know deep inside me how much my grandfather must have loved me.

When you move from served to server, you finally begin to notice a lot of things you didn’t think about before. I’m who I am because of the generous love of my grandparents and parents. On days with grilled fish, I’m reminded of all I have to be thankful for.

Soon you’ll be six years old ! When you were at the Kindergarten, you got good at drawing and would bring your drawings home. My favorite was one of us holding hands with big smiles on our faces. It’s a comfort to think that we were happy then.

You’re so bright. You probably already know why your Mother and Father don’t live together. We talked about what went on at our house a lot before we left, when you were four and we’d just come back from the shelter. You remembered so much I was surprised. It must have been hard for you, but thank you for coming with me. I promise we’ll be happy.

There are both happy and painful things in life. In happiness, we feel like the sun is shining on us and we’re full of energy. When things are painful, we move into shadow. It’s dark, and we feel weak. Back in our old house, we slipped imperceptibly into the dark and barely ever saw the sun again. I was so ashamed, all I could do was cry. When I did, you would bring me a towel to hearten me or line up your toys to play with me. It was moving to see how adult you acted.

The world is wide and full of wonderful things. I want you to enjoy them, innocently as a child, laughing without guile. That’s why I took you out from the little world without sun where we were trapped.

Up till now, I’ve put you through things no child needs to go through. So from now on, I’d like to think we’re going to enjoy things to the full.

If you look at flowers and insects, you know that even the smallest plants and animals have life and for all we know, a heart. I want you to know that it’s OK to play with those younger than you, and that you should take special care for those who are smaller and weaker than you are. Learn as much as you can and grow up quick and strong. Watching you grow tells me how good it is to have you here.

Let’s be close, enjoy everything that is out there and take on the world, wherever it leads us.

I’ve committed crimes.

I could say that it was just to get by, but it’s still a devastating failure.

And then, I’ve lost so many things. Compared with all the many things I have lost, I’ve gained little. Or maybe I’ve just gained nothing at all. Whichever it is, I can’t recall any single thing that I’ve gotten.

In detention, I massaged backs inscribed with tattoos of Dragons and Thunder Gods, participated in prison athletic meets, drank Cola, and peeled potatoes day after day.

One day, I noticed that my second decade had ended.

And then I knew I was stupid.

But, however dumb I’ve been, my parents didn’t drop me.

No, even in face of what I was, they were still there.

No matter what I’d done, I was still the life they had given birth to, a blessing.

Even before they might even begin to wonder whether I was good or bad, my parent’s premise was that I was everything to them.

My relation with my parents hasn’t changed.

In other words, our relation is much the same as when I was 18 years old. We’re just an ordinary family with the usual kind of relations, not particularly clingy, but we get along.

These days I have a job, live an ordinary life and speak to my parents as an adult. All of this I owe to my parents.

My parents trust me.

My parents forgive all my faults unconditionally.

For them, I am irreplaceable.

This is what I have learned over the last ten years.

This is not about gratitude or apologies.

I may be dumb but I am going to try to live.

I have no desire for death. Not at all.

I still have things I want to do.

But not for my parents. This needs to be for me.

It’s about effort.

Taking the discouragement.

Fighting for something.

Nonetheless, when I get to where I want to be, the very first people whom I’ll tell will be my parents.

I will carry on.

I will carry on with them in mind.

Now, the two of them let me do as I please, something for which I am so grateful.

One day, I hope to fulfill my dreams, stand before them and say “What do you think !!”

I went back home on my winter break and got caught up in year-end cleaning. It was my job to clean up the storeroom. While straightening up the shelves, I discovered an old photo album. The front cover was thick and covered with so much dust I thought the album must have some strange attractive power. Pictures: my Grandmother cradling my mother at the hospital, my mother standing shyly in front of the school’s front entrance in a sailor suit, one from the height of the bubble economy, a shot from abroad when she was traveling after graduation. All the pictures were of my mother, taken long before I was born.

Just as I was closing the album, full of feelings about my secret glimpse into my mother’s past, I was brought up short by the realization that this woman I had always seen uniquely as my Mother had also been a baby, a little girl, a child… I was frozen stock-still by this fundamentally obvious discovery. It wasn’t until the moment I took form in my Mother’s belly that she had become a Mother. Even when you were frustrated because things hadn’t gone well, exhausted from caring for my Grandmother, or wounded by words of sharp criticism, you carried on in your role of mother, always full of tenderness and without missing a beat.

I wondered if I could ever manage the same feat. Suddenly, simply carrying on day after day as a Mother struck me as being an incredible thing. And all at once, I was seized by anxiety, ran from the storage room and burst into the kitchen, which was full of the familiar smell of my mother’s curry.

“Mama. You’ve always been there for me. Someday, I hope I can be as good a mother as you are !”

Standing in front of her, I felt as if I’d shrunken in size. When she gave me a hug, I think I got even smaller.

My mother gave me a puzzled look and said, “You grow into motherhood laughing and crying along with your children. I’m still way behind your Grandmother though !” and laughed wholeheartedly.

“Hey You ! You’re eyes are puffy. Have you been crying !?”

My classmate Terada cried it out loud and clear our senior year of High School, just before our graduation ceremony.

After elementary school, I got into an escalator school, so my mother made my lunch boxes for 6 years running. These were lunch boxes with two levels in them. You could say they hoisted me up with both hands. The lower level was filled with white rice with a single pickled plum right in the middle. The second level was some kind of dish, not leftovers from dinner or breakfast but prepared fresh by my mother every day.

Since there weren’t any microwave ovens for us at school, I ate my lunchbox meals cold everyday. Even cold they were delicious, eve-ry-day. 

They say adolescence can be cruel. On the rare occasions when I had to resort to a bought lunch, I was happy. When my mother slept late, I always had 500 yen to use at the convenience store where I’d buy some bread or a CalorieMate. I was quite satisfied by these rare bought lunches, but it had nothing to do with being tired of my mother’s food.

The day my eyes were swollen with tears was a winter day in my final year of High School. It was the last day I’d be bringing my lunch box to school. At the thought of trading my Mother’s lunches for all the bought lunches to come, however much I liked them, I cried before leaving the house. After all those days of having my Mother’s carefully prepared lunches at my side, today would be the last. My heart sank for all of the times my Mother had handed me my lunch and I had not put my thanks into words, 1566 Thank-You’s. And my Mother cried too.

At school when I looked inside my lunchbox, I thought I was going to cry again. What my Mother had prepared wasn’t especially luxurious. But, I’ll tell you: asparagus wrapped in thin slices of grilled meat and eggs with scallions, my all-out favorites.

Thirteen years later and I still remember the pain I felt in my chest, like someone had given my heart a sharp pinch. These days, my Mother makes a lunch for herself everyday to take to work. When she reaches retirement, I’m thinking it’ll be my turn to make lunches for her.

My Mother started making preparations for her funeral about a year ago. It was just the week after my wedding. Once back from my honeymoon, I was immediately summoned to her house to hear her testament directly. Since I’d finally left home, maybe she thought that things being settled would be a relief to me. My father had already passed away. My mother’s child-bearing was late, and she was now past seventy. She told me she wanted to live as she pleased during her remaining years, and her plans seemed well thought out. Nonetheless, I couldn’t get used to the term, Final Arrangements, and hearing it from my Mother was like a thunderclap. I was speechless. I just stared at my mother’s aged face.

After a month of preparation, my mother went into action. First she sold off her house and property. She moved to a rental apartment with a garage. Between the money from the sale of her property and the pension benefits coming to her, she could put money aside to cover her funeral and still have enough to live a full life. Once she’d finished arranging her personal finances, she traded her car in for a fuel efficient hybrid and started her travels. She’d lived in Kyushu for years and began by visiting each of its prefectures, then made outings throughout the San’in Region and Shikoku. My mother did all the driving. My only contribution to this part of her funeral arrangements was to sometimes tag along.

My Mother, the driver, looked healthier than ever. From the passenger seat, I asked her how her health was, whether she had any complaints. She said, keeping her eyes on the car in front of us, “No, not right now.” Once on the speedway, she got into the fast lane while occasionally weaving from one lane to another to get ahead. From the looks of things, she was healthy. “I’ll be a bedridden invalid soon enough. For the moment, I just want to do as I please.” She stifled a laugh while she said this. Once at our destination, my mother, not to be outdone by the other tourists, proved an avid photographer, shooting multiple photographs while moving with the agility of a child.

My mother’s final arrangements are still ongoing as of this day. Recently, she took a plane from Kagoshima to Okinawa. Since she handed in her driver’s license, I’ve sometimes taken over the wheel. In the long run, I haven’t been able to get used to my mother’s new life. However, when I see my mother’s laughing face go off on another journey, it’s true that I feel in my heart that she’s being rewarded for many years of generosity.

I call my Father “Otō”. It keeps a little of the formality of “Otō-san,” without the familiarity of “Papa.” It seemed to fit our circumstances, and it’s what I’ve called him since I came of age. My Father doesn’t intimidate me. I’ve never sought his advice about my studies or progress nor has he questioned my decisions. He neither approves nor obstructs the things I want to do. When I’m with him, I tend to talk about silly things that I am not even sure my father understands, but he’s there with me, tagging along with nods and sighs, and were at ease together. But basically, what I ended up thinking was that my Father wasn’t particularly interested in what I was doing.

The first time I lived separately from my parents for any length of time was during my third year of college. That was when I left for a year abroad. My whole family went with me to the airport to send me off. It seems that after I went through the boarding gate, my mother and younger sister started to leave but my Father said he was staying until my plane was out of sight and remained to watch my takeoff. My Father’s never talked to me like a parent. This was the first time I knew that he worried about his daughter. Now I’ve left my hometown and live in Tokyo. Whenever I get a long vacation, I go home to visit, and when it’s time to go back to Tokyo, it’s always my father who takes me to the station. For a long time, he would watch from the train crossing until my train disappeared in the distance. These days he accompanies me through the ticket gate and sees me to the platform. We separate at the boarding zone or sometimes in the train. There’ve been no tears. Yet, when he finally says that last “See you soon,” maybe it’s because I’m right next to him, because I seem to hear everything he’s not saying, and I just cant hold back my own tears.

I was never able to know much about my father’s life. Our relation was never a very good one.

Both my parents are well. My Father must have been a little older when he got married than we’d expect these days since he’s 40 years my senior. He was an academic. As an academic, he was extremely logical in his thinking as well as diligent. Further, he was quite proper, to the point that a child’s play was painful for him. Or was it simply a nuisance because it disturbed his research. At any rate, I was scolded and kept away from him. From the time I was very young, I knew only my mother.

Just a few years ago, I had some real trouble, the kind of incident that most people never experience. It was also the first time I saw my father fly into a fury. He wasn’t in a rage about me. It was about the incredible damage being done to me. The way my father looked at the time, his determination and concern, gave me the courage to face the situation I was in.

The details of what happened to me are of little importance. I retain only my Father’s resolve in defending me, which made me wish that I had been more docile earlier, that I had been able to speak with my father from an earlier age. Then, perhaps I would have had a more fulfilling childhood. Later, when I finally dared confess these sentiments to my Father who was already in retirement at the time, his answer surprised me.

 “Your Father thinks the same thing, but also that it is not too late. We can start now. And because we can do it now, we should. There’s nothing late about beginnings. We still have time to talk about many things.”

Perhaps my Father had finally realized just how much I desired his love. Whatever the facts of our past as parent and child had been, they now just looked like moments of brief embarrassment. However much they separated us or brought us together, I understand their true nature now, when I am overwhelmed by their tenderness.

I grew up with only my mother. When I was in ninth grade, I became anorexic. Excessive exercise along with the limits of my food intake made me so skinny that I finally withdrew from school during high school. I was also hospitalized. My mother never reproached me. She continued to prepare elaborate meals for me.

This went on for four years.

Finally, when my body was overwhelmed and I was spending my days lying in my room, my mother confronted me, and for the first time ever, she actually hit me.

She said, “Please open your eyes and see just how we are blessed in our lives. Being alive is not just a matter of course. The fact that there are families. The fact that you have a family. We are here today because our ancestors came before us. They have given us this life, and you should live it.”

As I lay there watching my mother’s recede down the hall, I thought about just how much I had always disparaged myself. That I’d be better off dead, that I was weak: how many times had I said that to myself. How many times did I compare myself to others and find them better, stronger. It’s only normal that I saw everyone around me as stronger. Each and every one of them was filled with confidence and busy with their lives. Since they all looked down on me, I never made an effort. It’s as simple as that.

  “You should live. No matter how weak, no matter how puny. Be confident and live !”

The moment I finally heard that, I felt my heart take wings.

So much for anorexic me: one slap and a mother’s words.

I’ll remember those words for the rest of my life.

They saved me from the morass of anorexia.

And I’d like to say this to any others who suffer from eating disorders like I did, “You should live !”

These days my mother and I laugh about my time as an anorexic, as long as it was.

Yes, it was long, but now I’m living and it’s good.

Because being alive is real happiness.

That day, I was in sixth grade, and it was the first time I’d ever failed a test.

I was on my way home after they’d announced results for the junior-high entrance exams.

“I’d like to walk to a different station,” I said to my Father who was at my side. I’d just said it on the spur of the moment, but it brought home the extremity of my situation. In fact, that station was the quickest way home, so I guess I just didn’t want to get on a train.

We walked for about an hour, got on a train at a station where there’d be no one I knew and went home. When we opened the door, something smelled really good: deep-fried food with curry rice, my favorite. When I got to the dinner table, I saw a selection of batter-fried appetizers crowned with a pork cutlet, all of it laid out across curry rice.

No matter how much I liked all of these things, putting them all together in one plate seemed a little extravagant.

My mother was a good cook who specialized in filling the table with my favorite dishes, one after the other. As usual, sitting at the table and watching my mother prepare things, my nose was seized by a crowd of pungent odors.

I ate as if in a dream.

I used my spoon to scoop up as much curry as I could. I wolfed down the selection of fried foods.

I ate and ate, but there always seemed to be more.

When I looked, my plate was still full of my favorite foods.

When I thought about, I realized that this’d been the way it always was.

When I lied to my friends about being able to do a back hip circle on the horizontal bar, I ended up coming home crying, and just like today, my Mother made heaps of my favorite foods.

“This is the quickest way to feel better !”

That’s what I always think when I dig in, and soon enough, I get taken in by my favorite foods. Even though I know my mother’s secret agenda by heart, I get taken in by the food every time. The night after I failed a test I thought could never fix, I energetically cleaned my plate and went to my room for a deep sleep.

“Whatever happens, you’ll feel better after you eat !”

My mother taught me that. Time-tested, the ultimate strategy.

“It’s not working.” I’ve thought that again and again.

I’ve been fighting illness for almost ten years. There was a time when I could walk by myself, but between the ebb and flow of my strength, I gradually came to be bedridden. Just when I get to the point where I think I can recover, the disease pushes back even stronger. “Two steps back for every one step forward” marks my days.

With both body and spirit in the grip of this disease, it wasn’t the time to be making plans for rehabilitation. The weakness and pain when illness suddenly sweeps in to attack… Somehow my condition had become a barrier: it was back to bed and my fight with pain. When we began rehabilitation again, time had passed mercilessly on, my body was even weaker than before. We’ve fallen into a vicious cycle where each succeeding session of rehabilitation demands less and less of my body.

“Why doesn’t my body respond…”

At night, unconsciously, I give vent to my feelings in soliloquies that only I myself can hear. And hearing myself, I cry, and then go on wrenching tears from my withered eyelids. “This is all too much…” I lose myself in my grief as if in a sea of trees. With the strength gone from my body, I’m trapped in darkness, followed by loss of consciousness.

Suddenly coming back to myself, I can see that the sky beginning to lighten. Looking around me, the morning sun shines around the edges of the curtains. From my bed, I see a photograph of two people.

One is my oldest son, now seven. Forthright and of large build, he’s smiling like Ebisu amongst the Seven Gods of Good Fortune. I can hear his cheers of encouragement in my heart, “Papa, Get strong !” The other person is my funny, little,  four-year-old son. He’s had the same face since he was one, no matter how many times we photograph him, a face like a full-smile emoji. He doesn’t know the least thing about the mess I’m in. He’s posing as a hero in the photo, full power on. I stare at their photos for a moment. “Why?” I blurt out.

Children have a strange power. Soothed by the charming photo of my two sons, a ray of light breaks through my troubled heart, and just as quickly I find myself thinking, “Today. Let’s get on with this fight over my destiny”

The title was “God’s letter.”

I remember the penciled characters written in her unsteady hand.

It was a composition by my nine-year old daughter.

It wasn’t schoolwork. It was about a God who spoke to a little girl. There were no pictures, only characters, a short story of about 10 pages.

When I’d read it I asked my daughter whether she’d seen it on television or got it from a picture book.

“I made it up,” she replied in a small voice.

“Really,” I answered and picked it up to read it again.

We’ve lost the manuscript, but I haven’t forgotten the story.

“God is always looking at you”, “Where is he? On top of the clouds.”, “No, that’s not it. God’s in your heart.”, “In our hearts?”, “When times are hard, happy or when you don’t understand; you think God is there. You believe strongly that I am in your heart.”

Three months before this story was written, my daughter’s mother left our home.

To be more precise, I sent my wife away.

I didn’t explain the reasons for this to my daughters.

My younger daughter was two and a half, and she cried every night.

My elder daughter hasn’t cried since the night before her mother left.

I’ve realized that this was out of consideration for me.

I wondered if her mind was sound or unsound.

I felt sorry for her.

I thought she must be trying to make me understand something.

I tried to decode her intentions but couldn’t.

We hadn’t seen any nights of endless tears for more than five years.

Our situation wasn’t going to change, we could only accept it: no one had the answer to this puzzle. No one had a way out of this maze.

Had she written this story of a God who controls our destiny to fulfill some pressing need? As her father, as the husband who had decided on divorce, as someone who lived with her, I worried over what I should or could do.

After a while though, I stopped thinking about it.

When it comes from a child, guidance, instruction and remonstrations look more like impudence. We may be Father and Daughter, but we’re very different people. It is difficult to blindly accept that your daughter is imbued with a nobility that goes beyond the common lot. And yet, my daughter is blessed with unfailing optimism, the strength to communicate it as well as thoughtfulness towards her family, and I believe my daughter’s strengths are her own. I’ve come to understand that the acceptance of guidance, obedience and support are part of a parent’s role. 

My daughter taught me this, and I’m grateful.

I was a child who liked it when my Mother tucked me in, so much so that I sometimes kicked my covers off just to see if my mother’d come back. I liked the fluffy feel of my quilt round my chin when she said goodnight, and rediscovering the softness of my blankets when I woke from slumber. In addition, when I rolled over and someone fixed my blankets for me, I loved the afterglow of warmth that filled them. Why did I like all that? Not just because of the warmth. But because that warmth carried my mother’s love with it.

Now that I’ve grown up, my mother no longer tucks me in, but when I fall asleep, I always remember her.

“Don’t catch a chill and get a cold”, “Now look how you’ve uncovered yourself again”: the things she said to me when I was little, the words that showed her concern and a parent’s selfless love. I feel a slight tingling and know that if I lower my guard, I will burst out in tears. The heart swells with the memories of all the days gone by, never to come again.

I can’t really remember the feel or warmth of my quilt that precisely now, only the deep peace I felt when my mother tucked me in remains clear. It is the memory of my mother’s love for me.

These emotions were lived long ago. One day, I would like to feel what my mother felt. Because it’s certain to be a different way of looking at the world.

私は下手な短歌を詠むが、自ずと家族のことを詠んだ歌も出来る。そんな中で、全国的に著明な短歌大会で、特選に選んで貰った歌がある。それは、
頼まれもせぬ孫の名をあれこれと日がな一日考えておる
である。長女には、結婚後直ぐに子供（初孫）が生まれたが、長男にはなかなか出来なかった。下手をすれば、我が家の名字「赤松」の継承も終わりかなと思っていた。本人達も随分と苦労したようで、最後は人工授精に頼ることにしたが、その甲斐あって、同い年の夫婦がアラフォーに近付いた時に、やっと男児を授かったのである。
先の短歌は、その孫が生まれる直前に詠んだものである。頼まれてもいないのに、もし自分だったらどう命名するかと、落ち着きのない状態を詠んだ。結局、命名は夫婦二人で、『蓮太郎』となった。本籍のある大分県の偉人、「瀧廉太郎」を意識した命名である。暫く後にお祝いに訪れた際の、私のお祝いの歌は、
命名は蓮太郎なりふるさとの偉人に似たる佳き名と思う
である。
我が赤松家は、男ばかり五人の兄弟がおり、それぞれ二人ずつの子供を設けたが、その内男子は六人いるのに、孫の男児は僅か三人である。一人は養子なので実質二人である。辛うじて二人が、「赤松」の家系を繋いだ。その内の一人が我が家だ。
わが子を詠んだ最初の歌は、
諭吉をば二分の一にしたる程なればいいぞと諭と名付く
である。後に、故郷中津市の賢人、「福沢諭吉」の人物の大きさを知るに付け、二分の一でも誠に恐れ多い命名であったかと、思った次第である。長女に関する思い出深い歌の一つは、
爪摘めと詰め寄り来たる幼子の爪摘むことは危うかりけり
である。二人の子供を同時に詠んだ歌もある。
父の観る銭形平次にチャンネルを合わせて子等は飛び出して来る
毎日8時過ぎに帰宅する私の車の音を聞き分けて、迎えに飛び出して来ていた。そんな健気な時期のあった子供達も、今はもう40代。当時の私の年代を越えてしまった。

When I was in my third year of college, my father suddenly left our home. Since the time that he left, I can only remember one time when we went out and ate dinner together. On our way home, I got off the train first, and he turned to me and said,   

  “Let’s eat together again.”

  “Yea, let’s do that !” I answered, and heartily waved goodbye.

A promise with a reticent and bungling father, and that was the end of it. I didn’t hear from him again, and soon enough I forgot the promise. I just thought I’d meet him some other time. Time went on. I graduated from High School and got a job. Eight years had passed since I’d last seen my father. I was 28.

In 2017, I found out that my father was in the hospital with cancer. It was just after the New Year. We all thought that he would be cured by surgery, but in the end there were complications and my father did not recover. This was not the kind of reunion I had hoped for, so full of tears and regret. The day after my father passed away, I dreamed of him. I saw my father again and again as he was before his death. It was a really good dream. I wish I could have recorded it so I could see it again. I was eating out with my Father. The name of the restaurant was Good Fortune. Maybe it was a place in Heaven? It was Showa-style cozy and elegant. It seemed to me like a place my father liked. The food was family style and all of it good. I was surprised by how my father was wolfing it down. But when I said to my father, “We should come here again !!” I immediately woke up. I think my father must have remembered that old promise. We were eating together just like we had been the time we’d met so long ago. I could no longer meet my Father in this world, but in my dreams, we could meet as often as we liked. This is what my Father showed me. Up until my Father died there was no end of things I was sad about, but when I awoke from my dream, I’d found something to smile over.

“Really, when’s it going to get hot !…” I’d just gotten home and this is what my father had to say. We’d been breaking 30℃ for days on end. My father had a lot of errands outside the house, so I supposed he was talking about the intense heat.

“E—v, ev, ev, every, body—and Ryōji, le-t’s-get-together !!” It was some years ago that my father’s stories had made my four younger sister’s and I gasp. When we’d insist that he read us a bedtime story, it was never a picture book but always his own stories he insisted we listen to. We’d heard glittering tales of his growing up in a valley in Yamanashi and why heat didn’t bother him. How during summer vacations he’d chased cicadas together with a friend of the family named Ryōji. How they’d escape the blazing sun by going off on their bikes to a distant pool. And no hesitation about serving up the same summer stories in winter, they were good all year round.

For my father, the summer vacations during his elementary school years were incomparable. He didn’t just tell us about them. He would take all five of us to the local park on weekends. He led us everywhere, only too happy to run, but he’d get too excited and Mom would get mad.

When I think back on it now, from the time I graduated to the later grades of elementary school till today, I haven’t heard Father’s stories. He mostly talks about school exams or job hunting, things that are happening right before his eyes. When the summer heat’s on, rather than going out to the park or the pool, he mostly just spends his time at home these days. The two of us daughters who are still at home, as well as our father, are all getting older: we all prefer being home with the cooler to being out under the sun.

I’m in my fourth year of college, so next spring I will be leaving home to start a new job. I’m not really at a stage in life where I’m thirsty for tales from “Neverland”. But let’s get Dad to tell us “stories about Summer” next Sunday. I’m sure that he’s still ready to tell about the cicadas he got with ol’ Ryoji. It’d be a pleasure to forget this hot, sticky summer for one that was fun. Though still a bit embarrassing.

“The day you were born, we were eating curry and watching Sazae-san on television.”

My whole life, I’ve had to listen to this portrayal from my mother. Is that why I’ve grown up to love curry and gone on to record succeeding episodes of Sazae-san?

Once on the subject of the day I was born, my mother always ends up with the following:

“So there’s no doubt you were born on a Sunday. Children born on a Sunday are always lucky !!”

Really, I should be thankful for this story, because it made me believe in my own good fortune. When confronting my college entrance exams and later, job interviews, my mother’s story always bolstered my courage. Though, to tell the truth, I failed my entrance exams.

Then one day, when I had time and didn’t know what to do with myself, I checked my smartphone for a calendar of the year I was born and discovered, to my utter surprise, that I was born on a Saturday. That explained my college entrance exams as well as the number of times I’d been turned down for jobs: it was inevitable.

Straightaway, I asked her what was going on. Why hide the truth about my day of birth?

But, as usual, my mother just went on, “We were eating curry and watching Sazae-san.”

Set aside the curry, wasn’t she replacing one memory with another just like Sazae-san herself might? Of course, everybody knows that a really long time ago Sazae-san was programmed on Tuesdays. But the problem here was Saturdays.

I thought of episodes of Sazae-san that I’d gotten relatives to record for me. No one had been that kind of fan before then. Just about the only thing left for me to do now was to question the veracity of my papers. Rather than Sazae-san’s broadcast suddenly shifting to Saturday for a day, it was easier to believe that some busy intern had miswritten his entries. Or perhaps, seeing Sazae-san was just some nightmare inspired by my mother’s labor pains.

As of now, the stories that so inspired my confidence for more than 20 years are nothing but a headache, not even worth talking about.

When I think about this, I get so downcast that I just loose it.

Well, for starters, let’s eat curry for dinner tonight…