The First Obon of 2021

This year is the first Obon for my younger brother, who passed away in 2020 at the age of 58. Since it is also the third anniversary of my father's passing, I decided to go pick up my 84-year-old mother in Osaka. My mother's catchphrase is "I don't want to be a burden to you all," and she lives alone on the fourth floor of a five-story apartment building that has no elevator. When my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he lived with us in Chigasaki for three years until 2019 for his treatment, but as soon as the funeral was over, she insisted on returning, saying, "Osaka is better after all." Even then, as a 61-year-old son who is not exactly young myself, I ended up speaking in a strong tone, saying, "You're old now, and in old age, one should follow one's children." However, my stubborn mother insisted, "Bring the mortuary tablet and come with me," so I accompanied her to Osaka, and in the end, she returned to Osaka.

July 2021. Amidst the state of emergency, with the number of COVID-19 cases in both Osaka and Kanagawa being updated almost daily, and news reports urging people to "avoid Shinkansen travel as much as possible," I set off to return to Osaka. I boarded the Shinkansen from Shin-Yokohama. It was a breathtaking sight. There were only a few people in each car. The Shinkansen started moving smoothly. Like a criminal being transported in a prison van, I looked down, wore two masks, and closed my eyes.

I am going to pick up my mother, and I worry about what might happen if something goes wrong. Anxiety crosses my mind. I have received two doses of the vaccine. I probably won't get severely ill. Even so, we are living in a time where it is impossible to predict what will happen.

I strictly ordered my mother not to come to the station to pick me up. Ever since I was single, my parents would always come to the station to pick me up on the rare occasions I returned home. It had become a kind of habit.

But this is COVID. I must avoid contact with people as much as possible. I have no choice but to have her do that.

Seeing my mother after a long time, her back, already bent from a compression fracture, seemed even more hunched, and she was thinner than before.

"Have you been well?" "Yes, I'm fine, I'm fine."

No, you're not fine, I thought, but my mother said, "You must be tired," and asked, "Would you like a beer?"

Even at this age, in my mother's eyes, I am still just a child. It seems she had prepared a large amount of sukiyaki for dinner and was waiting for me.

"How are we going to eat all of this? The two of us?"
I blurted it out without thinking.

The next day, I helped my mother with things she couldn't do alone, like taking out bulky trash, moving furniture, and cleaning the bath, and by the time evening came, my mother muttered, "Two dragonflies have been coming since yesterday, landing on the window and tapping against it, looking at us. That must be your father and your brother." I agreed that it was almost Obon, and perhaps the two of them were lonely and had come to visit. I talked about that with my mother.
Indeed, it is almost Obon, and perhaps the two of them are lonely and have come to visit. I talked about that with my mother.

Well, the two of us arrived safely in Chigasaki by Shinkansen, and after a few days, we started preparing for my brother's first Obon. Because of COVID, we decided not to call a priest this year and to manage on our own with a "First Obon Set" bought at the supermarket. The eggplants and cucumbers were no longer needed, and the substitute set took their place. Perhaps I felt a bit relaxed, feeling like there wasn't much to do. It was on the 11th that my mother said she had forgotten to order the white lantern. I hurriedly called the Buddhist altar shop, but they told me the only one left that sits on the floor of an apartment was 7,700 yen. My mother rounded her mouth in surprise, and I just said, "I understand," and hung up for some reason I couldn't explain.

The news says that due to COVID, people are having sudden changes in condition but cannot be hospitalized, or are waiting for hospitalization, or that "even mild cases have difficulty breathing." I look at Twitter. A nurse's tweet.

"I am sorry that at your final moment, I could only hold your hand through gloves. I am truly sorry that I could not hold your hand, you who were so thoughtful of your family until the very end."

For now, I decide to look for a white lantern on Amazon. But there isn't much time left. My wife says from the side that there seem to be various circumstances, and deliveries during this period might be delayed. When I start searching on my iPad, my mother says that since it's only for one time, a cheap disposable one for about 1,000 yen would be fine. As it turns out, there are no such cheap white lanterns. If I don't have one, I can't welcome my brother for the first Obon on the 13th. Beside me, my wife looks at the iPad and tells me this one is no good, that one is too expensive.

The rest of the tweet from earlier.

"All over Japan, people are fighting the fear of potentially dying while hooked up to ECMO or high-flow oxygen. Thinking about the many families who cannot hold their loved ones' hands, who can only wait in worry while fearing the hospital's phone calls, this situation makes me want to cry, going beyond anger."

My heart is not at peace.
I scroll. There is no escaping anything. That is how it is.
What it means to live. Death is always by our side, though.
By the way, the white lantern is still unresolved. A cheap white lantern that will arrive by the 13th.
I scroll. There is nothing that really meets the requirements.
After searching everywhere, I find one last item in stock for 2,500 yen at the last minute and place the order in a hurry.

Well, the 13th is the first Obon.
Across Japan, various Obon events were likely held or not held. Remembering what it means to be alive at a time like this. That, too, is necessary. I hope that everything will be safe.

The tweets continue
"I have placed many people in coffins. I remember it many times. I cannot remain calm every time.
More than when I was continuously attending to patients in the palliative care ward, it is more painful than anything to put those who died of COVID into body bags in their hospital rooms and place them in coffins. I am filled with feelings of apology and frustration that I cannot let their families be by their side."

Oh, hundreds and thousands of souls,
please, do not wander,
rest in peace.
And my younger brother.
You were a manager of an udon shop and had finally been increasing sales, but it was tough with the COVID business suspension requests. The cause of death was not COVID, but it was hard, wasn't it?

I'm going to go see Mom properly today. Just wait for me.