Shinkansen（新幹線）

On the Sanyo shinkansen, making our way from Shimonoseki to Tokyo, we had cleverly escaped the wild typhoon.  Now the skies were calm - governed stoically by the late afternoon sun.  She was sound asleep, her head on my shoulder, her hand in mine. 

Outside the window, a casual parade – dark green valleys and rice fields swaying, cozy sea harbors and fishing boats bouncing, blue roof-tiled houses crawling reluctantly up hillsides to the lonely stone cemeteries perched comfortably, but resentfully, on top. 

We don’t choose the memories that stay with us; they choose us. The sunlight was fading and, as it always does, was reminding me that I am another step closer to death – another breath closer to oblivion.  And yet, I confess, no closer to knowing the world.

Outside the window was her land – her home.  In this place were created her youthful memories of gathering wood for her grandmother’s fire and of dancing round the yagura during the Obon festivals.  Of standing up to a school bully and of a secret puppy hidden in her room.  Of her fondness for natto and her fascination with elephants.  Of her rejection as an aspiring actress and of her father’s ire as she chose college over marriage.

Even knowing this how could I ever know the depth of her if I did not know her land?  How could I possibly ever touch the nostalgia of her heart?  The last light of day played across every contour of her hand.  I sat mesmerized, observing on it, every aging crease of her skin that she had wrongly concluded would repulse me and so shyly hid from me.  Would she ever know that it made no difference to me?  Would she ever really know her charm?  Would she ever understand her allure?

In the midst of my thoughts, briefly she awakened.  At first a bit confused, as though momentarily lost, her eyes at last found their focus on me.  Squeezing my hand she smiled and, reassured, sleepily lowered her head back onto my shoulder.  With soft breath she drifted off again to the gentle rhythm of the speeding train.  And having the words but not the wisdom, still I whispered into her dreaming ears, “Suki da yo, Suki da yo,” as the summer twilight finally covered us.

- Just a peasant

Photo by potiyama