[Melting in the Indian Summer] #15 Grandma's Chiyogami Paper

"Chi-ko."

Grandma's voice
gently
brushes against my ears.

On the lap of my beloved
Grandma.

Her bony thighs
support my bottom.

Every now and then,
I feel the hard click of her bones,
but little me
didn't mind that at all.

Grandma, who called me "Chi-ko, Chi-ko,"
eventually came to be called
"Chiko-baachan"
by everyone.

Her black eyes were deep enough to pull you in,
framed by long eyelashes,
always crinkled at the corners,
a person filled with soft wrinkles.

"Today, I'll teach you how to make a yakko-san, Chi-ko."

Always kept in a corner of the kotatsu
was an empty tin that once held fine sweets.

Grandma would reach out with a "heave-ho,"
pull it toward us,
hook her fingers on the edge,
and pop the lid off.

What is it? What is it?

I waited for that lid to open
with excitement.

"Look here."

What she took out
was brightly colored chiyogami paper.

Wow.

Maple leaves,
temari balls,
butterflies,
cherry blossoms,
folding fans.

The finely drawn pictures
were all so lovely,
and I

"Wow, wow."

I exclaimed in wonder at each one,
lining them up on the kotatsu one by one.

Every pattern
was sprinkled with silver powder here and there,
and when I touched them with my hand,
those spots felt rough.

"Which one do you like?"

Thinking, "Hmm,"
I pointed and said, "This one!"
It was
the Chiyogami I first laid eyes on,
with small flowers lined up on a red background.

"Well then, I think I'll go with this one, dear."

Grandma picked up the blue one.

"Watch closely now."

She turned the Chiyogami over,
--flip.

Folded it into a square and opened it up,
--rustle.

Folded the corners toward the center,
--crease, crease.

Turned it over and folded it again, then once more,
--press, press.

Gently lifted the three diamond-shaped pockets she had made with her thumbs to form a rectangle,
--pop.

"There, a Yakko-san."

Wow, ah~
Is this a Yakko-san?

With a face, body, hands, and feet all together,
it looks like a person named "Yakko-san."

I want to do it too!

On Grandma's lap,
I thumped my bottom.

I turned the red paper over,
folded it into a square and opened it up,
--thud.

Folded the corners toward the center,
--crinkle.

Turned it over and folded it again, then once more,
--squeeze, squeeze.

Using all my fingers to try and lift the three diamond-shaped pockets I had made,
I somehow managed to form a rectangle,
--fumble, fumble.

It's not a Yakko-san!

"Very good, very good."

No, that's wrong!

I kept folding
one after another,
folding
yakko-san dolls at random.

A pile of colorful, mangled yakko-san dolls
scattered across the kotatsu.

Eventually, Grandma couldn't watch anymore,
so she wrapped her hands around mine
and guided me through the folding process.

Corner to corner,
line to line.

"You have to look right here."

Grandma's wrinkled finger pointed it out.

"While holding this down,
make a crease here."
--kuhyu

Ah,

that sound is so pleasant to my ears.

Grandma, your folding makes such a nice sound.

"Does it?"

How do you make it sound like that?

"You have to fold it carefully."
"You can't just fold it any old way."

But even so,
whenever I tried to fold it by myself,
it never made a nice sound at all,
and I couldn't get the shape right either.

Even when it was time to go home,
I kept folding yakko-san dolls in a trance.

"It's time to go."

I resisted my mother's voice
by crying with all my might.
(Though that's always the case.)

"Why don't you stay the night?"

Grandma said to my mother, looking lonely too.
(This, too, is always the case.)

I want to keep playing!
I want to stay with Grandma Chiko!
I'm not going home!

Every time we had to say goodbye,
my loud crying
and my mother's soothing voice
would echo throughout the neighborhood.

Even so,
the time we spent playing together
seems to have been only about an hour.

Around that time,
Grandma had been diagnosed with an illness,
a simple bed had been placed in the living room where the kotatsu was,
and I learned much later from my mother
that Grandma would only get up from that bed
to hold me
when she was playing with me.

Even then,
after the 'yakko-san' doll, she also taught me how to make a crane.

She also taught me many nursery rhymes.

She would sing the songs I liked
together with me over and over,
adding her own accompaniment.

"Is Chiko a sweet girl?"

She would say that in my ear
while always stroking my head.

I remember the final day
strangely clearly.

It was a hot summer day.

That day,
all our relatives, including Grandma,
were supposed to gather at our house
to watch the fireworks that went off every night at the nearby amusement park.

Then,
Grandma, who was supposed to come at night,
for some reason,
rode in Grandpa's beat-up station wagon
and came to see me
during the day,just dropping by.

I was completely thrilled
by Grandma's unexpected visit.

I immediately
brought out the thin origami paper we had at home
and climbed onto Grandma's lap.

Yakko-san,
a trick boat,
a paper balloon,
a crane.

Grandma could fold all sorts of shapes
with such ease.

Her hands handling the origami were careful and gentle,
but,
when she made a crease, it was sharp and decisive.

I stared intently
at those hands moving so vividly,
as if I had become a camera.

It's just that
with my flimsy origami paper,
it didn't make that nice sound like Grandma's Chiyogami paper,
even when Grandma folded it.

That was the only thing
that was
a bit disappointing.

"I'll come back to see the fireworks at night."

The parting at that time was simple,
or rather,
the excitement for the fireworks at night outweighed it,
and both I and everyone else were laughing.

The farewell took place amidst the deafening chorus of cicadas.

While we were chatting by the car,
a butterfly came fluttering from somewhere
and landed on Grandma's skirt.

My mother and my aunt, my mother's sister,
"Mom, a butterfly landed on you," they said
with a laugh.

Grandma
waited patiently
until the butterfly flew away.

I also remember Grandma's long eyelashes
as she gazed at the butterfly with affection.

"See you tonight."
"See you later."

It was a carefree,
peaceful farewell.

And in the end,
Grandma coming at night
never came to pass.

"Chi-ko."

If Grandma, who called me that,
had lived on past that day,

the elementary school me,
the middle school me,
the high school and college me,
and the me of today,

I am sure

would have had her as my greatest ally.

That kind of
certain love
is what she poured into me in those short years.

That is why, even now, sometimes
I talk to Grandma in my heart.

Grandma,
I'm still as clumsy as ever.

Grandma would laugh and say
"It's all good, it's all good,"
and that alone would fill me completely.

That alone is enough to
completely
fill me up.

Hello,
this is haru.

The final post of this year
was "Grandma's Chiyogami Paper."
My time with Grandma

was short, but

the fact that she poured
a fluffy, warm treasure called love
into me without reservation
has soaked into not just my memories,
but into something like my very life and soul,
where it remains.

Even now, that love
clearly
pulses within me,
so I know
that it exists.

So cute, so cute,
so dear, so dear,
I miss you, I miss you.

I think that the most common words
are the ones that reach
a young child most directly,
without spilling over,
and are stacked up just right.

It was an essay that made me feel
truly glad
that I was able to properly preserve that in writing.
Thank you

for reading until the end.

*

Now,
on note,
I have been posting
"Melting in the Indian Summer"
every Sunday since September of this year,
but

actually,
yesterday,
I delivered the "final episode"
on Ameba Ownd, where I had been serializing it for three years.

Perhaps
those of you who supported me there
have flown over to note
and are opening this page.

Thank you
for coming to see me.

I wonder if it will take about another half year
to migrate everything up to the final episode?

I will leave
Koharu here.

I am closing the Ownd site, so
I would be happy
if you came to visit me here.

Even within note,
it is still
a very, very small room
that is hardly known,
but I will continue to run it with care
until the final episode.

It is the end of the year, isn't it?

I hope you all
have a peaceful
end of the year and New Year's holiday.

And if you'd like,
I hope to see you again next Sunday
right here.

haru

I would also be happy
if you could pick up
a copy of Koharu's book.