The Shrike's Larder
A small frog was impaled on a withered branch of the persimmon tree in the garden.
The shrike lets out a shrill cry. The shrike that claims this area as its territory must have made a |hayanie| (shrike's larder).
That impaled frog is me.
I stared blankly at the garden, through which the winter wind was blowing.
My husband has been spreading out the newspaper on the living room sofa for a while now.
"Do you have any plans today?"
"Ah... well, maybe."
He just replied vaguely, without even looking my way.
It's probably just going to the driving range; he can't have anything important to do.
When we built this house, it was fun to take care of the garden together. Planting the persimmon tree was something we decided on together, too.
"Peaches and chestnuts take three years, persimmons eight," he had said.
He said that while smiling at the still-thin sapling.
We were looking forward to it bearing fine fruit someday.
I cannot find such a sun-drenched space anywhere in this house. Even though the persimmon tree dutifully bears fruit every year, inviting the interest of us as a couple, it no longer even serves as a conversation starter, and our relationship is only withering away.
"I have English conversation school this afternoon, so I'm heading out."
"Ah... alright."
Two years have passed since my husband retired. We haven't had any particular arguments, but I feel irritated by his every move.
Even though he is home, he doesn't help with the housework and just has time on his hands. Yet, when topics like moral harassment or sexual harassment by politicians start on the TV news, he says,
"There are some old-fashioned geezers out there. It's pathetic, thinking they can throw their weight around just because they're bosses these days," he says with a smirk, as if it were someone else's problem.
"I was careful with my subordinates, too. They'd immediately make a fuss about power harassment or moral harassment, trying to make me the bad guy," my husband fumes.
He is good at keeping up appearances. His interactions with neighbors are gentle, smooth, and well-regarded. As far as my husband is concerned, the politicians he was just condemning have nothing in common with him.
To him, I exist in a state disconnected from society, and I don't qualify for any kind of harassment. I am like a convenient tool.
He won't lift a finger, and since he doesn't know where anything is kept, he calls me for even the most trivial things, never moving from where he sits.
"I am not your maid."
The words get stuck in my throat as if phlegm were caught there. It is as if I am swallowing the death throes of the frog impaled on the withered branch.
If we had children, perhaps we could have built a happy home without drifting apart. The time we spent alone must have slowly rotted away.
My friends at the English conversation school are meticulous about their fashion, their hairstyles are beautifully set, and they don't neglect even their fingertips. They dress in trendy clothes and enjoy traveling abroad several times a year.
"Minako, why don't you come to England with us? We're planning to visit London, with the British Museum and Buckingham Palace, and the Lake District, famous for Peter Rabbit."
"Well, I'd love to, but I wonder what my husband would say?"
"You're studying English, after all, and it's important to experience native English in the country itself."
I know. I, too, want to enjoy the rest of my life for myself like my friends. I want to cast off my worn-out, outdated dress, buy a new carry-on bag, and enjoy the overseas trip I've always dreamed of.
And yet, the existence of my husband always rears its head.
He probably wouldn't oppose it.
But when the time for me to be away actually approaches, he will surely start worrying about this and that—"What am I supposed to eat?" "What about the cleaning?" "What about the laundry?"—and in the end, he will blame me.
"Are you planning to leave me to fend for myself? Do your duty as a wife," he will corner me with a piercing glare, even if he doesn't say it in words.
How much longer can I endure while being bound to this life?
I wear myself down day after day for my husband, losing sight of myself without ever hearing a word of gratitude.
If things go on like this, my time will be trapped on a branch like the shrike's larder, quietly drying up.
Outside, the winter wind whips up the dead leaves.
"My friends invited me to go to England with them. Is it okay if I go?"
"Housewives have it easy, don't they..."
My husband's sigh-filled reply causes a flare in my ears.
The colors around me peeled away all at once.
Outside the window, the larder swaying in the wind looks blurred.
Is there still time?
Before I rot away like this, I want to escape from here.
I slowly opened the sideboard drawer and took out the divorce papers.
I exhaled deeply to steady my trembling fingertips.
And then, as if to cut off my hesitation, I wrote my name on the paper.
Something fell from the branch of the persimmon tree with a dry sound.
Was that the sound of the larder being set free?
The End. (1998 characters)
I would like to participate.
Thank you very much.
#LiteraryAwardForThoseWhoLoseEverything