Friday, May 14, 2004
The Sleeping Maples of Minoh
The Sleeping Maples of Minoh
(jpoldmixon)
For Tracy Crossett... Maybe a year ago, we met somewhere along Deep Eddy... I hope you're in a better place...
1.
Old Sam Bedford had stepped off a 26-hour flight from Houston Intercontinental to Kansai International Airport alone. His son, Glen, greeted him with a tired expression.
It was the first time the 72 year-old had seen his son in over two decades, and although their written correspondence had never faltered, the overdue reunion caused Glen to realize that he had somehow believed that he would never see his father again. Not because of death - his father was active, in good health, and nothing he knew could kill the old man - but because the distance had grown comfortable. Glen was fifty-three. The events of his life had developed into a working order, and it was only when one deliberately tampered with those developments that problems occurred. Comfortable wasn't the right word. It wasn't that the distance was comfortable: the distance was appropriate.
"You must be pretty tired out," said his son.
Sam curled his upper lip and scratched his unshaven chin. "Naw, I'm fine. Need a shave, prawbly."
As they drew closer to Minoh, the distant purple and gray of the mountains turned with the landscape and slowly fell into focus with the colors of autumn. Old Sam kept his gaze out the window. His son drove on in silence.
The apartment was just as it had been described in the holiday phone calls. Wall to wall carpet spread a gray monochrome through two small bedrooms, a kitchenette, a dining room table, and a sitting room Old Sam guessed to be about twice the size of a walk-in closet. On the floor of the sitting room against the wall, a narrow futon was folded in half. A yellow, cotton blanket and a white pillow were neatly arranged on top.
Dinner was an elaborate affair with four dishes, to all of which Sam added soy sauce, a gesture that Glen's wife, Yuko, regarded as a peculiarity of old age rather than an insult to her cooking. Of more concern were the questions he posed directly to his grandson, Toshiyuki, which caused the boy's face to grow pale with incomprehension and Yuko to fidget slightly. Glen seamlessly answered the questions in the same matter-of-fact voice that he used over the phone, reducing the old man's initially steady gaze on the boy to an occasional sidelong glance after Glen had answered a question.
As Yuko slid shut the door to his grandson's bedroom, he announced that he'd like to have a stroll in the hills. His son's protest centered on the forecasted cold front, but the insistence of his 72-year-old father was relentless. Glen eventually pressed him to take a light jacket, a flashlight, and a map of the National Park within walking distance from his house. He stood just inside the doorway with one hand on his hip and watched his father walk briskly out into the autumn evening.
2.
It was the first time he had been to Japan since the war. After so many years, he was hardly surprised that this place looked nothing like his memories. The road led uphill, and the adjoining shallow river's deep, manmade embankments reverberated the sound of the distant waterfall.
He remembered that Glen, at one point, had been a baseball player. He spent twelve years sitting in the stands watching, but the time he could spend in those memories was as short lived as his recollections of the war. To his left, a green, streaked statue of an elderly man with a walking stick carrying what may have been his wife. Anne.
The road took a sharp left turn. Here, the river was little more than a creek. On the opposite bank, perhaps seven feet below, a gray monkey was frantically gnawing at the roots of a plant. It scattered the remaining, inedible part of the plant at its feet, forming a soft, green matt of elongated stems. In the trees above, three or four or five kept watch, occasionally shaking the branches as they leapt from one bough to the next.
As he passed another curve in the pavement, he noticed a footpath on the opposite side of the river. Ahead, the dark shingled roofs of two temples traced short, black arcs into the autumn sky. The paved road gradually inclined, and the lulling sound of the waterfall grew stronger. A short way ahead, a bright red bridge with a black, lacquered rail joined the paved road and the footpath on the opposite bank of the river. Beyond the bridge, the paved road cut around the temple grounds lying to his left. Across the river, the footpath wound back, and up the side of the hill.
The path through the hills was a series of stairways and uneven footpaths. Each stair was six inches high, the depth of the step varying depending on the position of the stair in the larger walkway. The way to the top of the first hill retraced its progress, doubling back from right to left in broad sweeps, while continuing to move upward through the towering maples.
He paused to rest after walking some distance up the hill. The leaves overhead stirred rigidly, as if the wind had separated to shake each leaf without disturbing the branches. The rattle of maple leaves swelled and fell off in a moving network of sound that formed a blanket in the canopy above. The blanket spread, a lullaby that began in the heavens and reached upward from the earth beneath his feet. He raised his chin to the winding earthen steps and pressed on, through the onset of frozen rain.
3.
Glen's eyes remained focused in the darkness. The rough, paper layer over the ceiling textured to let varying depths of shadow fall over its surface. His wife rested her forearm on his stomach, turning her body as she felt him rise and kick his left leg outside of the covers and onto the floor.
He ran a damp palm from his forehead to his chin and exhaled. He carefully slid open the door to their bedroom so as to not wake his son. Glen moved into the adjoining sitting room with equal silence, where he found the guest futon still folded in half. He squinted as the neon light flickered on. Letting his body drop to the floor, he sat cross-legged in front of the small television perched on the wooden cabinet marking the only piece of furniture in the room.
From the underside of the cabinet, he withdrew a small key from the magnet holding it in place. The key turned in the lock, and he lightly pulled at the handles of both doors. Sliding forward with some friction, the doors eventually stopped, the inside corners jammed against each other in such a way as to prevent further progress.
For a moment, he shifted his weight, moving his hands to the floor behind his back to support him. He looked to a corner of the ceiling as if an answer lay within the texture of the paper-thin walls. His attention returned to the handles of the cabinet, and after two sharp tugs, the doors opened with a reluctant moan.
The thick aroma of wood, dust, and abandoned papers rushed toward him. Inside, an array of letters, pictures, and other anonymous volumes were scattered in disarray. The haphazard organization was a scene alien to the meticulously clean apartment. Glen surveyed the cabinet with a thin smile that conveyed both remorse and comfort. One by one, he removed the contents of the cabinet, placing each item in his lap and arranging them according to size and type. To the far right, standing straight up against the inner wall of the cabinet, the only item defying the disorder remained untouched until Glen had set everything else in order on the floor around him.
Finally, he withdrew the large envelope from the cabinet. He drew a deep breath and slowly let the air pass out of his mouth as he traced a finger around the letter taped to the cover. The letter detailed the contents of the envelope: the program for his mother's memorial service, a copy of a last will and testament, and several photos that his father had included at the last minute. He continued to trace his finger over the surface of the envelope and averted his eyes again to a corner of the ceiling.
Glen had read the letter only once, over two decades ago. The envelope remained sealed. At the time of reading the letter, he was surprised and relieved to find no indication of scorn in his father's words. There was no questioning of his responsibility as a son, no reprimand for remaining overseas, no hurtful accusations of being callous for missing the funeral of his own mother.
With the care that he had opened the sliding doors so as to not wake his son, he replaced each item in the cabinet in even, ordered stacks, leaving the envelope at his feet. With a letter opener given to him by his wife, he opened the envelope for the first time. The program for the memorial service bore the names of friends-of-the-family that he remembered in two to three second flashes. He spread the photos of his mother on the floor in front of him as if they were a deck of cards.
The thick, white borders stood out against the browning images. The olive and orange tones varying in shades as the arm of a middle aged mother stretched to a child dressed in overalls the color of red clay dirt. Inside, the contents were just as his father had described, only the last will and testament was not his mother's.
4.
At the summit of the hill, he lowered his heavy body on the stone benches of a small pavilion. To the west, the maples separated, framing a panoramic view of the gray metropolis below. The buildings were blurred by the falling sleet, the rigid lines of intersections and skyscrapers smudged by the thin veil descending on the city below.
Old Sam rested his palms at his side on the seat of the bench. The thick blue veins between his knuckles stood out against his skin. Purple and red blotches formed around the orange of his fingertips. His tongue traced viscid saliva over the corners of his mouth. His feet were wet, his toes numb, the prickling sensation spreading from his ankles and suddenly moving up the backs of his calves.
The Sun had long passed out of sight, the diluted fluorescent pink of sunset hardly visibly on the dome of the sky. The lullaby of the maple leaves and frozen rain had settled into the background, while the punctuated cracks of sleet set a melody on the roof of the small pavilion.
There was a drowsiness to that cloud descending on the cityscape before him. He concentrated on that cloud. He tried to see every particle of that floating cloud without separating each droplet from the whole. And he somehow remembered that before, long ago - when he was a child - he would lay awake at night and stare into the darkness, a sharp gaze that could somehow pick out every particle of light in that darkness, because no darkness was complete - there was no darkness that he could not see, and therefore no darkness without light - it was a matter of time, of concentration, of honing the visual senses to detect each layer of the thick sheet, each thin strand in the layers upon layers, the strands woven together that make those layers tight enough to reinforce the sheet, to see those strands are made of tiny knots tied together in columns of twisted strings, and inside each of those knots - the single particle that keeps the darkness from being impenetrable - a light in darkness; and by that light, he fell asleep.
(jpoldmixon)
For Tracy Crossett... Maybe a year ago, we met somewhere along Deep Eddy... I hope you're in a better place...
1.
Old Sam Bedford had stepped off a 26-hour flight from Houston Intercontinental to Kansai International Airport alone. His son, Glen, greeted him with a tired expression.
It was the first time the 72 year-old had seen his son in over two decades, and although their written correspondence had never faltered, the overdue reunion caused Glen to realize that he had somehow believed that he would never see his father again. Not because of death - his father was active, in good health, and nothing he knew could kill the old man - but because the distance had grown comfortable. Glen was fifty-three. The events of his life had developed into a working order, and it was only when one deliberately tampered with those developments that problems occurred. Comfortable wasn't the right word. It wasn't that the distance was comfortable: the distance was appropriate.
"You must be pretty tired out," said his son.
Sam curled his upper lip and scratched his unshaven chin. "Naw, I'm fine. Need a shave, prawbly."
As they drew closer to Minoh, the distant purple and gray of the mountains turned with the landscape and slowly fell into focus with the colors of autumn. Old Sam kept his gaze out the window. His son drove on in silence.
The apartment was just as it had been described in the holiday phone calls. Wall to wall carpet spread a gray monochrome through two small bedrooms, a kitchenette, a dining room table, and a sitting room Old Sam guessed to be about twice the size of a walk-in closet. On the floor of the sitting room against the wall, a narrow futon was folded in half. A yellow, cotton blanket and a white pillow were neatly arranged on top.
Dinner was an elaborate affair with four dishes, to all of which Sam added soy sauce, a gesture that Glen's wife, Yuko, regarded as a peculiarity of old age rather than an insult to her cooking. Of more concern were the questions he posed directly to his grandson, Toshiyuki, which caused the boy's face to grow pale with incomprehension and Yuko to fidget slightly. Glen seamlessly answered the questions in the same matter-of-fact voice that he used over the phone, reducing the old man's initially steady gaze on the boy to an occasional sidelong glance after Glen had answered a question.
As Yuko slid shut the door to his grandson's bedroom, he announced that he'd like to have a stroll in the hills. His son's protest centered on the forecasted cold front, but the insistence of his 72-year-old father was relentless. Glen eventually pressed him to take a light jacket, a flashlight, and a map of the National Park within walking distance from his house. He stood just inside the doorway with one hand on his hip and watched his father walk briskly out into the autumn evening.
2.
It was the first time he had been to Japan since the war. After so many years, he was hardly surprised that this place looked nothing like his memories. The road led uphill, and the adjoining shallow river's deep, manmade embankments reverberated the sound of the distant waterfall.
He remembered that Glen, at one point, had been a baseball player. He spent twelve years sitting in the stands watching, but the time he could spend in those memories was as short lived as his recollections of the war. To his left, a green, streaked statue of an elderly man with a walking stick carrying what may have been his wife. Anne.
The road took a sharp left turn. Here, the river was little more than a creek. On the opposite bank, perhaps seven feet below, a gray monkey was frantically gnawing at the roots of a plant. It scattered the remaining, inedible part of the plant at its feet, forming a soft, green matt of elongated stems. In the trees above, three or four or five kept watch, occasionally shaking the branches as they leapt from one bough to the next.
As he passed another curve in the pavement, he noticed a footpath on the opposite side of the river. Ahead, the dark shingled roofs of two temples traced short, black arcs into the autumn sky. The paved road gradually inclined, and the lulling sound of the waterfall grew stronger. A short way ahead, a bright red bridge with a black, lacquered rail joined the paved road and the footpath on the opposite bank of the river. Beyond the bridge, the paved road cut around the temple grounds lying to his left. Across the river, the footpath wound back, and up the side of the hill.
The path through the hills was a series of stairways and uneven footpaths. Each stair was six inches high, the depth of the step varying depending on the position of the stair in the larger walkway. The way to the top of the first hill retraced its progress, doubling back from right to left in broad sweeps, while continuing to move upward through the towering maples.
He paused to rest after walking some distance up the hill. The leaves overhead stirred rigidly, as if the wind had separated to shake each leaf without disturbing the branches. The rattle of maple leaves swelled and fell off in a moving network of sound that formed a blanket in the canopy above. The blanket spread, a lullaby that began in the heavens and reached upward from the earth beneath his feet. He raised his chin to the winding earthen steps and pressed on, through the onset of frozen rain.
3.
Glen's eyes remained focused in the darkness. The rough, paper layer over the ceiling textured to let varying depths of shadow fall over its surface. His wife rested her forearm on his stomach, turning her body as she felt him rise and kick his left leg outside of the covers and onto the floor.
He ran a damp palm from his forehead to his chin and exhaled. He carefully slid open the door to their bedroom so as to not wake his son. Glen moved into the adjoining sitting room with equal silence, where he found the guest futon still folded in half. He squinted as the neon light flickered on. Letting his body drop to the floor, he sat cross-legged in front of the small television perched on the wooden cabinet marking the only piece of furniture in the room.
From the underside of the cabinet, he withdrew a small key from the magnet holding it in place. The key turned in the lock, and he lightly pulled at the handles of both doors. Sliding forward with some friction, the doors eventually stopped, the inside corners jammed against each other in such a way as to prevent further progress.
For a moment, he shifted his weight, moving his hands to the floor behind his back to support him. He looked to a corner of the ceiling as if an answer lay within the texture of the paper-thin walls. His attention returned to the handles of the cabinet, and after two sharp tugs, the doors opened with a reluctant moan.
The thick aroma of wood, dust, and abandoned papers rushed toward him. Inside, an array of letters, pictures, and other anonymous volumes were scattered in disarray. The haphazard organization was a scene alien to the meticulously clean apartment. Glen surveyed the cabinet with a thin smile that conveyed both remorse and comfort. One by one, he removed the contents of the cabinet, placing each item in his lap and arranging them according to size and type. To the far right, standing straight up against the inner wall of the cabinet, the only item defying the disorder remained untouched until Glen had set everything else in order on the floor around him.
Finally, he withdrew the large envelope from the cabinet. He drew a deep breath and slowly let the air pass out of his mouth as he traced a finger around the letter taped to the cover. The letter detailed the contents of the envelope: the program for his mother's memorial service, a copy of a last will and testament, and several photos that his father had included at the last minute. He continued to trace his finger over the surface of the envelope and averted his eyes again to a corner of the ceiling.
Glen had read the letter only once, over two decades ago. The envelope remained sealed. At the time of reading the letter, he was surprised and relieved to find no indication of scorn in his father's words. There was no questioning of his responsibility as a son, no reprimand for remaining overseas, no hurtful accusations of being callous for missing the funeral of his own mother.
With the care that he had opened the sliding doors so as to not wake his son, he replaced each item in the cabinet in even, ordered stacks, leaving the envelope at his feet. With a letter opener given to him by his wife, he opened the envelope for the first time. The program for the memorial service bore the names of friends-of-the-family that he remembered in two to three second flashes. He spread the photos of his mother on the floor in front of him as if they were a deck of cards.
The thick, white borders stood out against the browning images. The olive and orange tones varying in shades as the arm of a middle aged mother stretched to a child dressed in overalls the color of red clay dirt. Inside, the contents were just as his father had described, only the last will and testament was not his mother's.
4.
At the summit of the hill, he lowered his heavy body on the stone benches of a small pavilion. To the west, the maples separated, framing a panoramic view of the gray metropolis below. The buildings were blurred by the falling sleet, the rigid lines of intersections and skyscrapers smudged by the thin veil descending on the city below.
Old Sam rested his palms at his side on the seat of the bench. The thick blue veins between his knuckles stood out against his skin. Purple and red blotches formed around the orange of his fingertips. His tongue traced viscid saliva over the corners of his mouth. His feet were wet, his toes numb, the prickling sensation spreading from his ankles and suddenly moving up the backs of his calves.
The Sun had long passed out of sight, the diluted fluorescent pink of sunset hardly visibly on the dome of the sky. The lullaby of the maple leaves and frozen rain had settled into the background, while the punctuated cracks of sleet set a melody on the roof of the small pavilion.
There was a drowsiness to that cloud descending on the cityscape before him. He concentrated on that cloud. He tried to see every particle of that floating cloud without separating each droplet from the whole. And he somehow remembered that before, long ago - when he was a child - he would lay awake at night and stare into the darkness, a sharp gaze that could somehow pick out every particle of light in that darkness, because no darkness was complete - there was no darkness that he could not see, and therefore no darkness without light - it was a matter of time, of concentration, of honing the visual senses to detect each layer of the thick sheet, each thin strand in the layers upon layers, the strands woven together that make those layers tight enough to reinforce the sheet, to see those strands are made of tiny knots tied together in columns of twisted strings, and inside each of those knots - the single particle that keeps the darkness from being impenetrable - a light in darkness; and by that light, he fell asleep.
