Keep smiling, my father said.

Old memories of time spent with my father.

The neighborhood grass field within walking distance of our house, me in short sleeves and shorts.
My father's rough fingers nimbly weaving a crown of white clover.
Quickly. So fast.
Little me tries to copy him, but I don't know how to weave it, so the flower chain goes limp and falls apart, piece by piece.
My father places a thick, tightly woven crown of white clover on my head.
Adorned with white clover, I was smiling. I was so happy.
You taught me how to weave flower crowns, didn't you?

On summer days, you showed me how to skip stones on the river.
The stone skipping across the sparkling water surface again and again.
I was so excited to see stone skipping for the first time.

My father was a heavy smoker, and I once begged him, "Make me a smoke ring." After he reluctantly said, "I don't like that, it makes my tongue hurt," he would take a deep drag of smoke and tap his cheek with his fingertip, tap, tap.
Pop, a smoke ring would come out of his mouth. Pop, pop, pop.
I loved watching those pale blue cigarette smoke rings expand wide and eventually disappear in a wavy motion.

Once I started kindergarten, I had a schedule and days of the week, and the time I could spend playing with my busy father decreased.

In the summer, he did physical labor at construction sites.
He would have his evening drink, eat dinner, and go to bed earlier than anyone else.
Saying a cheerful "Good night!"

In the winter, he was the guy at the rental ski corner at the ski resort.
Because there was night skiing, he would come home late (and then go to bed quickly).

Since both jobs required working on weekends, my days off and time never aligned with my school schedule.
Going out to play with my father was a very rare occurrence.

Even so, what I remember is that my father was dexterous, obsessive, and prone to getting hooked on things.
In the summer, he would use materials brought from the site to build a small version of a box-style swing like the ones in parks in our garden. (That goes beyond just being dexterous.)
In the winter, the waxing techniques he learned through self-study became so reputable that he received requests from regular skiers at the resort, and a ski waxing workshop was set up in our garage. (What kind of situation is that?)
Long before I was born, he apparently got into photography and built a darkroom in the house. (Seriously, what kind of situation is that?)

Perhaps because of that personality, he apparently caused trouble for the family.
My mother was often angry.
I didn't really understand it when I was little, but as I got older and heard various stories from that time, I could understand with an "Ah..."
She must have been pushed around by my father.

But I loved my father.
We didn't have much time to talk, and we barely had any memories of going out as a whole family, but I loved him.
That's because it was clear that my father loved me.

When I was in my mid-20s, my mother declared that she was retiring from preparing meals, so I started doing the cooking and grocery shopping.
I had already been doing things like laundry and washing dishes since I entered junior high, so I just thought, "Okay," and started planning dinner menus between work.
I laughed when she suddenly said, "Just like Momoe-chan putting down the microphone, I'm putting down the rice paddle today."

But a few years later, my mother passed away.
She was taken by ambulance, hospitalized, and passed away.
It was too sudden.

I was by her side.
At that moment, my mother was unconscious.
I was confronted with the fact that she had passed away on the intensive care unit monitor.
I thought my parents passing away was something that would happen much, much later.

Then began a life without my mother.
It was a sad time.

But you know, it was a year before my mother passed away, or maybe two years.
The cats that were born in front of our house became part of our family.

My mother and father both looked so happy.
I also wanted to get home from work early, and I still truly believe that those cats were special cats that came to let us spend a few fun years together as a family.
I'm so glad they came to us back then.

Even in the house where my mother was gone, just having those sister cats by our side helped our hearts.
Little by little, the time we spent smiling increased for everyone.

That's how we helped each other as a family, chatted about trivial things, laughed, and the days went by.

In the midst of those days, my father was going for regular checkups for the cancer he had suffered from a few years prior.
I feel truly relieved when no metastasis is found during the checkups.

Losing my mother made the reality that parents can die even in their 20s sink in, and I realized that no matter what you do, you will always have regrets.

So if there was a place my father wanted to go, I wanted to go with him as much as possible.

For the next two years and a little more, we went to a National Treasure Buddhist Statue Exhibition at an art museum, with me driving.
Before I knew it, my father was chatting happily with his friends, and I greeted them, "This is my daughter," and "Thank you for always taking care of my father." After his friends left, I asked who they were, and he said, "I don't know, we just became friends now," and I laughed.

We also went to see a night game of the professional baseball team my father supported.
When we were waiting for a taxi after the game, the team bus passed by, and the players inside waved at us, which made my father very happy.
I was happy to see my father's face, which was as joyful as a child's.

Since I was little, I had been giving him chocolates on Valentine's Day.
When I gave him chocolates as usual even now that I'm an adult, he invited me to go buy cake at Aeon on White Day.
I was waiting, saying "Yay!", but my father wouldn't come out of his room for a while.
When he finished getting ready and came out,
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, wearing a jacket and looking sharp.
When I said, "Wait, I'm just going to the local Aeon, I'm in casual clothes!", he said it was totally fine.
When I said, "But Dad, you're all dressed up!"
"Well, of course, it's a date," he said.
For our date, he bought me a shortcake.
When I chose one, he said, "No! Get more!" and let me choose another cake.
That's a date for you.

Around that time, my father had stopped drinking much of the alcohol he used to drink so much of, and would only have one or two glasses depending on the menu.
When I prepared a menu with meat as the main dish, I could hear his voice, mixed with playfulness and happiness, saying, "Give me some alcohol."

Come to think of it, ever since I was a child, my father was the type of person who wouldn't start eating until everything, including his chopsticks and the seasonings he would use that day, was placed right in front of him.
If I accidentally forgot to bring out a seasoning that might be used for that day's menu, he wouldn't even ask for it; he would just keep waiting without saying a word until it appeared, and I would realize, "Oh! Sorry!"
He really was a Showa-era father.

When my mother passed away, while my brother who lived in a distant city was staying for a while for the funeral and such, we were all eating dinner at home.
"Dad, you're having this made for you, why don't you say anything? It's delicious, isn't it?"
When my brother said that, my father said proudly, "It's delicious, but since I have this every day, this taste is normal for me," which was cute.

Yes, my father is cute and high-maintenance.

He would sneak three mugwort daifuku (with bean paste) into the rice cooker while it was keeping the rice warm, and when I went to serve the rice, he would request with a smug look, "Put two daifuku in for me."

My father is full of confidence that he has made the delicious daifuku nice and warm.

"Huh?" When I opened the lid, there was green mochi melted into a gooey mess and rice with black bean paste oozing out... It makes you laugh, doesn't it?

My father cries easily even when watching TV (even when it's not a sad part), so maybe it really hits home for him.

I gently hand a tissue to my father, who is sobbing.
I feel like maybe he doesn't even know why he's crying himself, and he's just caught up in the atmosphere.
There are endless episodes like this.

I thought those days would go on forever.
One night, my father's arm began to twitch violently from around his elbow.

The next day, at my father's request, I drove him to a well-regarded local chiropractor.

This... is something we can't handle here... The doctor's face clouded over.
We went straight from there to the general hospital where he had been having regular checkups for the past few years to see if his cancer had metastasized.

We had an examination, took some images, and waited in the waiting room.
I had been anxious since last night.
I forcibly pushed away the bad premonition crossing my mind.

Only I was called in by the doctor.

It was lung cancer.
The lung cancer had metastasized to his brain, and that was apparently causing the violent spasms.

He had six months to live.

Six months?

I must not show my father a shaken or sad face when I leave the examination room.
If I do, my father will understand what it means.

"I'm thirsty, so I'm going to go buy a drink. You must be pretty tired too, Dad. What would you like to drink?"

I head toward the vending machine with the most natural attitude I can muster.

The moment I turn my back on my father at a distant vending machine, tears start to overflow. No, I can't.
I don't want to look like I've been crying.
I wipe away the tears. They keep overflowing. They won't stop. But I wipe them away. I take a deep breath.

Why am I here all by myself? Someone, go talk to my father.
It would be unnatural if it took me this long to buy a juice.

I steady my breathing and return to my father. If I speak, I feel like I might start crying. Are they coming out?
My father is acting normal, but maybe he noticed.

Was my father acting normal because he realized I was trying hard to act natural?

After that, my father and I were called in together.
We heard about the future treatment plan.
Hospitalization and chemotherapy.
My father was motivated to undergo treatment.

We were finally able to go home.

As my father's hospitalization began, I changed my lifestyle.

I want to spend as much time as possible with my father in the days we have left.

I go to see my father every day.
We chat. I ask how he's feeling.
"I'm fine," my father replies.

The days go by.

We used to celebrate my father's birthday every year, but this year we spent it in his hospital room.
I bought shortcakes, and we ate them together, one each.

In the middle of it, the doctor who came for a checkup opened the curtain vigorously and was surprised, saying, "Oh! You're eating cake!"
We laughed together and said, "It's his birthday!"

Because the cancer had metastasized to his brain, it seemed my father could see worlds that I couldn't.

Even when he was with me and we were chatting, a party with a large crowd of invisible people he knew would start.
But it was a party. Since my father seemed to be enjoying himself, I was glad.
It's much better than seeing something unpleasant.

My father looked happy even when he was talking to someone I couldn't see.
I couldn't see them, but my father was always able to make friends with anyone right away.
It wasn't a scary hallucination, and I was just glad to see my father smiling.

And my father always understood me.
I was truly happy that I was his daughter until the very end.

My father's favorite professional baseball team came to our city for a game again this year.
Since my father's illness was incurable, I wanted to let him do everything he loved.

I gathered the courage to talk to his doctor, and they kindly gave us permission to go out.

The stadium was crowded, and my father was in a wheelchair, so I was nervous about things like helping him in the restroom, but when I told him we could go see the baseball game, seeing him look forward to it made me feel that it was all worth it.

My father is still a photography enthusiast.
He prepared his big, impressive single-lens reflex camera.

On the day, he set up a tripod in the wheelchair seating area.
But he didn't have the physical strength or muscle power to take the pictures the way he wanted to...

Suddenly, he started giving us instructions on how to use the camera.
We took many photos of the players with our clumsy camera skills, didn't we?

He seemed so happy giving camera instructions and cheering for the players' performance.
My father is smiling.
I'm so glad we came.

After returning to the hospital, we took pictures together in the courtyard, both wearing the team's caps and holding megaphones.
Both my father and I have wonderful smiles.

I'm married now, and I have that photo displayed in the living room where I live with my husband.
My father and I are still smiling even now.

I printed out all the photos from that day, put them in a mini album, and gave it to my father as a gift.

It made me happy to see my father looking at the blurry photos and the ones that miraculously turned out beautifully with such joy.

Some time after that, I came to visit him in his hospital room as usual.
My father wasn't there. Was he in the restroom? Was he having an examination?
I sat down by the bedside for the time being.

That mini album was open and propped up on the table that was set up like a bridge over the bed.

As I was looking at the photos, a nurse who happened to pass by told me, "He always looks at those photos, even when he's sleeping, and he asks us to set them up at an angle that's easy for him to see while he's lying down."
Tears spilled out.
I'm glad we went together.

The days continued after that as well.

I remember how I used all my concentration to feed him even just a few grapes, his favorite, making sure he wouldn't get aspiration pneumonia.
The fact that he told me they were delicious and how happy that made me still comes to mind.

We were in the car on the way back to the hospital where his primary doctor was, after temporarily transferring to another hospital for chemotherapy that wasn't available at his usual one.
I was in the driver's seat, and my father was in the passenger seat.
Before arriving at the hospital, he smoked just one puff of a cigarette in the car.
It was the same pale blue smoke as the smoke rings I saw when I was a child.

There were so many days in those few months that I couldn't possibly write them all down, weren't there?

I was able to be with my father at the end.
I was able to be with him at his final moment.

The last words my father said to me were, "Your smile is the best, it's the best thing about you, so keep smiling forever."

I thought, 'What?'

Can you really say something like that in these final moments? Father, you're amazing.

Tears overflowed. But I tried my best to smile. "Your smile is the best too, Father. It's wonderful. Thank you," I replied.

That was the last conversation between my father and me.
Immediately after, his pupils dilated.
I cried out loud.
Father, don't go.

The sense of loss and the days I spent crying after that were terrible, but a few months later, I ran into an acquaintance of my parents' generation who had helped me in a place I never expected to meet them, and when they asked how my father was, I told them he had passed away.
I think I probably said something like, 'I'm lonely.'
Or, 'I have so many regrets.'

Then that person said to me earnestly, "Your father is always watching you. Even though he's dead, he's definitely watching you. He's always watching over you. That's just what parents do."

For some reason, I felt as if those words had come from my father himself.

It's been over ten years since then, and in a few more years it will be twenty, yet I still tear up when I remember the days I spent with my father and the words we exchanged.

I will always remember what my father said to me at the end.

I will keep smiling.