Late Summer Breeze

On a sweltering day, I have a florist bundle together some eustomas and sunflowers.

The person I am giving these to today will never smile at me.

They won't say "thank you" either.

That is because these are flowers to be offered at a grave.

Late summer. The sound of cicadas cannot be heard.

As I enter the temple grounds, the dappled sunlight softens the heat just a little. I buy some incense.

I exchange words with the woman at the temple: "It's hot, isn't it?" "Yes, it really is."

It is not just meaningless small talk; it is as if I am telling myself that I am okay, that I can still have normal conversations like this.

I light the incense, offer the flowers, wash the gravestone, and pour water over it.

If there is an insect, I think, "Maybe you came to see me," and if a bird sings, I think, "You're telling me you're glad I came."

There is no scientific basis for this, but there are times when one can only survive by clinging to things that have no clear answers.

The eustomas and sunflowers sway in the breeze. Even though wind is just a natural phenomenon, I want to find meaning in everything. Even though the only undeniable reality is that nothing comes back when I offer these flowers.

When I press my hands together in prayer, a gentle breeze blows.

It was a soft breeze, as if it were stroking my head.

I felt like I was going to cry, so I pressed my lips together tightly and left the temple.

Goodbye, you who have passed away. I must live on strongly.

I must live on, painfully, while continuing to buy bouquets that offer no response, and while feeling a mysterious power in the wind, the birds, and the insects.

On the way home, I stop by a coffee shop and order an iced cafe au lait. I pour in plenty of sugar, which I usually don't add.

This is sugar for comfort. It is a sweetness to soothe a heart swaying in the late summer breeze.