The Vanished 'Crying Truck'

When I try to recall my young daughter, a certain scene floats gently into my mind.

It is a path along the river where the narrow sky, cut off by tall buildings, suddenly opens up and becomes bright.
It is paved with reddish-brown bricks.

At the edge of the embankment, seasonal wildflowers like pale pink evening primroses, forget-me-nots, and Venus's looking-glass peek out.

It left an impression on me that my daughter, who would fuss at home at every opportunity, would become quiet whenever we walked this path.

Her eye level was about at my stomach.
Pushing the stroller from behind, I didn't know what was reflected in her eyes.

There is a bridge across the way.
The river had water that always felt calm with little texture; I didn't think it was dirty, but I never felt it was clean either.

As we went further, the children's center where my daughter and I spent about half of our week would come into view.

My daughter, born in Tokyo, spent nearly half of her week at the children's center.

Dancing, singing, doing origami, and playing with clay with children of the same age. With the teachers watching over them, she was always smiling, never getting scolded by her mom.

Going to the children's center was fun, but for some reason, the road to and from it remains vividly in my memory.

There were three children's centers within walking distance.

After trying out several, I liked the one that was a 15-minute walk from our house the best.

A bright, spacious hall.
The atmosphere of the teachers and moms.
Just the right amount of crowdedness.

I also liked that the road to and from there was so full of nature that it didn't feel like Tokyo at all.

Ever since my child was born, my mind had been constantly noisy.

While my scattered thoughts and to-do lists swirled around, my daughter was quiet while we walked along the riverside path, and my heart felt empty and calm.

Once my daughter learned to walk, I started letting her down on the promenade that stretched along the way, letting her walk just that part.

There were many living creatures on this promenade.

When we found tadpoles in the spring, even I, having grown up in the countryside, had never actually seen them before, so we both squealed with delight as we observed them.

She would show interest in fallen flower petals and nuts.
When she found a branch, she would scratch at the sand with it.

Even though there were times I felt annoyed because she wouldn't want to go home despite the swarms of mosquitoes, looking back now, I think those were all small, irreplaceable moments.

As she neared the age of three, there were days when she would walk on her own, despite the long distance.

When we were in Tokyo, what my daughter saw was always a world looked up at from a low vantage point.
A world seen from a stroller, or from the height of a small three-year-old.

I wonder how many times we traveled that road.
In the less than three years before we moved to Shikoku.

When my daughter turned three and a half, our family moved to Shikoku for my husband's work.

Wide skies.
Rice fields stretching far into the distance.
Fields along the roads.

The scenery we saw while walking was completely different.
No matter how far we walked, there were no children's centers, let alone parks.

On the other hand, there are many preschools that accept children from their 'third birthday'.

Feeling sorry for my daughter, who would sob because she missed the children's center, my husband immediately applied for a mid-term enrollment.

The view for my daughter, who now commuted by car, changed significantly.

The world she saw from the child seat installed in the passenger seat of our 4WD, high above the ground, must have been something completely different.

'A crying truck!'

My daughter's voice bounced.

'You know, there are trucks that are crying and trucks that aren't!'

'Huh, what are you talking about...?'

To my confusion, my husband, looking through the front mirror, explained with a squinting smile.

"You know, if you look at a truck from behind, it looks like it's crying."

From then on, every time my daughter rode in the car, she would look for "crying trucks."

A crying truck is a "win."
Just finding one makes my daughter break into a big smile. Even I, who was angry, end up smiling along with her.

My daughter has become a second grader.

135cm. Tall, slender, and delicate.
The height difference between us has finally dropped below 20cm.
Our shoe sizes are almost the same now, too.

It was about two years ago, I think, when I returned to the passenger seat. I noticed that I could see the "back side" of the cars ahead of us quite clearly.

"There was a crying truck."

When I said that to my daughter with a smile, she looked at me through the rearview mirror with a puzzled expression and replied, "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, a little egret! A little egret, a little egret!"

Her voice bounces with excitement. Her gaze remains fixed on a small reservoir flying past the car window.

My daughter, who has a deep affection for the white water birds called little egrets, has made it her life's work to stare at clear rivers and reservoirs in the split second we drive past, trying to spot as many as she can.

The crying truck has disappeared from the world reflected in my daughter's eyes.

But I am sure that even when I become an old woman, I will still find crying trucks.

Searching for the traces of my three-year-old daughter.

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