That Was the Last Time We Slept Together

When I was a child, there were many nights when, for some reason, I just couldn't fall asleep.

I usually slept in a bunk bed with my older brother, but once I was wide awake, I couldn't get to sleep no matter what I did.

An hour passed, then two, and as the night deepened, I could hear my parents going into their bedroom.
My brain felt frozen solid, as if it had been put in a freezer, and there was nothing I could do about it on my own.

I decided to get out of bed, making sure not to wake my brother.
I gently slid open the sliding door to the Japanese-style room where my parents were sleeping.

I have almost no memory of my father welcoming me. He would either be asleep or give me a slightly bitter look.

On the other hand, my mother would always gently welcome me, asking, "Can't you sleep?" as if to say, "It can't be helped."

"Come here."

My mother would turn her back to my father and curl up into a 'ku' shape.
I would fit into that space, forming a shape like a '<<'.

My mother's futon was warm, and I felt myself softly unraveling from my back. Once I was enveloped in my mother's scent, I could fall asleep in an instant, as if everything until then had been a lie.

◇

The last month before my mother passed away.
Every weekend, I traveled back and forth between Tokyo and Wakayama.

I was in my mid-twenties. I didn't have much money, so I was always preoccupied with how to make the trip as cheaply as possible.

That day, I returned on a night bus and went straight to the hospital in the morning.
I hadn't slept well. Well, that's how night buses are. As I sat on the round stool in the hospital room, feeling dazed, my mother suddenly spoke in a parental tone.

"Sleep here."

I naturally refused. I was a 26-year-old adult.
I hesitated to lie down in the bed where my mother, who had terminal cancer, was hospitalized, just because I hadn't slept well on the night bus.

Even so, my mother wouldn't give in.

"Go ahead and sleep."

There was a bed right in front of me, and I was indeed sleepy. Rather than arguing about it, I decided to just sleep. Surrendering to my drowsiness, I easily changed my mind and slipped into those white sheets.

The starched, overly clean sheets felt distant.
The room was a four-person ward partitioned by light blue curtains.
My mother's bed had a window on the right side, and I was invited to the window side.

I could feel my mother's presence at my back.
And then, I fell asleep in an instant.

I don't know how much time had passed. A nurse around my age came to take my temperature, and I jumped up, feeling embarrassed.

"Keep sleeping."

Seeing that, my mother said sharply. It was with a seriousness as if she were protecting her child from an outside enemy.
I instinctively lay back down as my mother said, but still feeling awkward, I got out of bed.

"You should have stayed in bed a little longer."

As I was putting on my shoes, I heard my mother's voice from behind me, sounding a little disappointed.

◇

Night.
I get into the futon with my daughter and son to put them to sleep.

At first, I lie on my back to be fair.
The two on either side of me soon start to doze off.
They go here and there, kicking the wall, kicking their mother.

I move along with them, and in the end, I settle into a "≪" shape with my daughter.
While warming her bottom with my thigh, I gently stroke between her eyebrows with my fingertips, and my daughter slowly falls asleep.

I end up with my back to my son, but there is no need to worry.
My son likes to sleep while touching my hair.
Taking advantage of the fact that the back of my head is toward him, he touches it, touches it, as if he were grooming me.

While feeling my son doing that, I rub my cheek to my heart's content against the back of my daughter's head, who is usually a bit cool.

I savor her sweet scent and enjoy her soft, thin skin, which is like a daifuku mochi.

When raising children, there are moments when the lid on memories of the past flies off.
Moments when you vividly recall things you experienced as a child but had forgotten, by having similar experiences as a parent.

Holding my daughter, I recall that night in the Japanese-style room and that exchange at the hospital, and then I suddenly understand.

Ah. That day, my mother wanted to sleep with me one last time.

I recall several of my mother's tones and expressions.
And now, as my feelings for my daughter, who is sleeping snuggled up to me, overlap, that hunch turns into conviction.

If I were in the same position, I would surely say the same thing to my daughter.

Once you become a parent yourself, 26 still seems like a child. The person themselves thinks they have become an adult, but from a parent's perspective, they are precarious. I feel like I would still want to protect them.

While sleeping together, what on earth was my mother thinking? What kind of face was she making?


That was the last time we slept together.

Warm, clumsy, and bad at being spoiled.
It was a sleep-together that was just like the person who was my mother.

I participated in the project by Chichukai-sei Kiko.