A 5km One-Way Trip and Houttuynia (Part 1)

*This is a serialized work. Click here for the first episode.

What could be waiting at the end of this road?

When I was little, I always thought about things like that.

I couldn't go anywhere on my own.

I didn't even know the way back home.

But the other side of the unknown road would beckon to me.

(Come here.)

Yet I would turn around and go home.

I did that many times.

Thinking back, I suppose that was my first road.

Beyond that road I longed for back then.

There must have been a second road there.

What could be on the other side of this?

I became an adult without ever being able to find out.

I want to walk home today.

My four-year-old daughter says this on the way home from nursery school.

Her close friend from the same school always walks home. It must be because they live nearby.

My daughter was always competitive.

She wants to be the first to brush her teeth.

She wants to be the first to take a bath.

She wants to be the first to reach the bedroom.

Even though she is slow at eating and just plays around, so she never actually comes in first.

Still, it must be that age where she wants to do everything others are doing, saying,

I want to do it too!

She definitely wanted to say that.

It takes about 7 to 8 minutes by car from the nursery school to my house.

It takes an hour on foot for an adult.

For this child's legs, it would likely take twice that long if things went poorly.

So I say,

Our house is very far from here. We don't have enough time today, so let's do it another time.

As we piled up those 'another times,' the swallows left their nests, the autumn leaves arrived, snow piled up, flowers bloomed, and the green grew deep once again.

"Can you walk home today?"

I gradually began to think,

(I must not let 'next time' become a lie.)

that I should stop saying that.

It was a cloudy Sunday.

A warm, humid day where the moisture seemed to cling to your body.

My two children, my wife, and I.

After having lunch out as a family of four, we were on our way home.

My two-year-old daughter was nodding off in her child seat, her head lolling.

My four-year-old daughter was staring blankly at the Tom and Jerry cartoon playing on the car audio screen, though it seemed like nothing was actually registering in her eyes.

"What should we do this afternoon?"

I asked my wife while fiddling with my smartphone in the passenger seat.

I wasn't really expecting an answer. It was just for the atmosphere.
Just for the mood.

"Hmm, I don't know, what should we do?"

That was the languid reply that came back from my wife, who was driving.

It was pretty much what I had expected.

That's how our family's day has been since this morning.

Nothing feels quite right, no matter what we do.

I put down my smartphone and gaze at the scenery.

In the rice paddies where planting has finished, thin rice seedlings sway, and by the time they ripen, my child will likely be five years old.

"Four-year-old, why don't we try walking home from nursery school?"

I decided to make "next time" a reality.

Packing water, snacks, and windbreakers into a 20L backpack, my daughter and I stepped out into the nursery school parking lot.

When it comes to walking, my leg strength surpasses that of an average person.

I have walked through fields, along coastlines, and even beyond those mountains.

And every day, I put in 15,000 steps of walking labor at the hotel restaurant service.

I am not good at running.

I don't have particularly good athletic reflexes either.

But when it comes to walking, I won't lose to anyone.

A small spark of adventure was lit in my father's heart.

And my four-year-old daughter.

Short-sleeved shirt and long pants.

Sneakers she wears every day.

No backpack.

I'm carrying all the luggage.

By the end of the trail, you'll likely become the luggage yourself.

Unaware of my calculations, my daughter starts skipping with joy.

Mom says.

"Can you really walk that far?"

I reply.

"I'm with you, so it'll be fine."

My wife looks a little worried.

"Ah!"

I let out a voice without thinking.

"What's wrong?"

"I forgot my bear spray."

My wife said, looking exasperated,

"Stop carrying that kind of thing around in the city."

she said.

I thought,

(There are bears in this town, too, you know.)

But I realized that my worrywart self was about to start doing something unreasonable again, so I decided that if I encountered a bear, I would just have to risk my life.

The car carrying my wife and four-year-old daughter drove away.

At last, our adventure had begun.

"Let's go, hurry!"

Unable to contain her excitement, my daughter started moving ahead quickly, with a mix of running and skipping.

If she starts at that pace, she won't even make it halfway.

I thought that, but then,

(It's important to have fun.)

I thought, and decided to let her fully enjoy the pleasure of pointlessly burning off her energy.

As we moved forward a little, I saw a cluster of yellowish-green, heart-shaped plants growing from the seam between the asphalt and the gutter.

It was wood sorrel.

From a single gap, it was spreading its broccoli-like, dome-shaped leaves.

There were no flowers blooming.

My daughter grabbed the base and yanked it out with a snap.

She held it in one hand and moved a few meters forward.

Then, she pulled out the next cluster in the same way.

In her hands, which were now holding several plants together, a bouquet of wood sorrel had been completed.

"Look!"

With that, my daughter tossed the wood sorrel bouquet into the air.

The bouquet fell apart in mid-air and scattered onto someone else's doorstep.

"Ahaha!"

My daughter laughed and ran off.

(She'll learn that it's a nuisance to others somewhere, someday.)

I gathered the scattered wood sorrel to the side of the sidewalk and started walking again.

As I walk through the residential area, there is a large house with a tiled roof and a magnificent garden.

Beyond the fence, colorful flowers are planted, creating a beautiful, meticulously maintained garden.

Did those flowers drop their seeds here?

Or did they make their way through the soil along their roots?

Flowers that are not meant to grow in the wild were turning their neat faces toward me from the gaps in the hedge.

"How cute."

My daughter said that and reached out her hand.

She reached out, but she didn't pick them.

Then she looked at me and asked,

"Is it okay to pick these flowers?"

I didn't know.

Flowers that had poked out from the hedge of someone's property, likely blooming without being wanted there.

While their companions with the same faces colored the garden on the other side, I felt that it wouldn't matter if this one wasn't here.
That was the feeling I had.

Even if you picked it, no one would know.

It isn't needed.

Such thoughts also crossed my mind.

However.

"This is a flower that bloomed in someone else's garden, so shouldn't we avoid picking it?"

I tell her.

"Eh, why!?"

My daughter complains, looking dissatisfied.

But I know.

(Actually, you felt like you shouldn't pick it either, so you stopped and asked me, didn't you?)

The wood sorrel danced through the air.

And that flower was left behind here.

It may not be able to return to its companions blooming in the garden, but by blooming where it could, it will likely fulfill its purpose.

"Let's look for flowers that are okay to pick."

When I tell her that, my daughter stands up and runs off.

I chase after my daughter once again.

I walk through a side street by the drugstore.

The road is narrow, but well-maintained, and there is little car traffic.

Perhaps a neighbor, an elderly woman pushes her cart and smiles as she looks at my daughter.

Unaware of being watched over like that, the four-year-old adventurer sought new discoveries.

She meanders down the middle of the road, wobbling to the right, then wobbling to the left.

"You shouldn't walk on the car road!"

When I admonish her, my daughter moves to the sidewalk.

The sidewalk has a gutter running along it, covered by dull silver grates.

From the gaps in the grates, spade-shaped leaves, partially tinged with yellow, spread out.

And there, blooming, were flowers with four white petals facing the sun, and yellow-green pistils standing like tiny towers.

This is Houttuynia.

To think it would take root in a place like this.

Along the quiet road, it stretches its roots along the gutter, popping its head out in clusters from the scattered grates.

"Is it okay to pick this flower?"

She says, crouching down and looking up at me.

Does she even want something like this?

Plain, flat, and a flower that it would be a pity to even compare to the hedge flowers she gave up on earlier.

I instinctively...

"Do you want to pick them?"

I ask in return.

"Yeah."

My daughter said so.

"Alright, that's fine."

"Yay!"

My daughter was delighted and plucked the Houttuynia flowers.

"I finally got the flowers, they're so cute."

That's how she was petting the Houttuynia flowers she held in her palm.

A landscape where flowers line up.

Whose does it belong to, I wonder?

The flowers are just living and blooming.

I am the one giving permission to obtain that beauty.

(Perhaps it is sinful.)

I thought about that, but

(Just kidding, how stupid.)

I thought that overthinking things would make me unpopular, so I stopped thinking.

"It's a flower called a dokudami."

When I told her that,

"It's cute, Mr. Dokudami."

And then,

"Daddy, you hold this."

she said.

"…Huh…?"

The consequences came around immediately.

After every sin comes a punishment.

Thinking that accepting it is also a father's role,

(Should I just pretend all the roads in town are someone else's property?)

I thought, but of course, I wouldn't do anything that mean.

(Ah, what a pain.)

Thinking that, I shoved the dokudami into my pocket.

To be continued in the middle part