Summer Memories: Words That Melt Away
Tiny bubbles float in the clear liquid poured into a slender glass.
When I run my fingers along the curves of the glass, which is beaded with water droplets, a pleasant coolness seeps into my skin. As I tilt the glass, a faint sweetness and the sensation of popping bubbles slide down my throat.
After finishing my shopping, I had been walking under the blazing sun. Suddenly, the cool-looking noren curtain of a sweet shop caught my eye, and I stepped inside, feeling as though I were seeking the shade of green leaves. As I drank my cider while gazing at the shimmering leaves through the window, I felt the heat trapped inside my body fading away, and a deep, quiet calm settled in my chest.
I took a paperback book from my bag—its corners rounded from being read over and over—and slowly let my eyes pass over the text. Not to grasp the meaning of the words, but to savor the smoothness of the letters, as if watching clouds drift by at dusk.
The way flowers that wash up on the shore, like beach morning glories, rugosa roses, and sea pinks, bloomed under the heat waves; the languid gaze I cast at the unripe snake gourd fruit on the eaves of another house; the way the straw hat worn by Eienko was blown away by the wind, her long hair swaying; the way sand clung to every wrinkle on the soles of my feet, and how I walked this slope enduring the sting of seawater on the chafing from my rubber sandals.
These were all just memories of summer.
As I read the words aloud in my heart, even though it is a scene I have never seen, the textures of what is described emerge vividly, as if they were my own memories from a distant day.
Spring, autumn, and winter, too.
I remember many small events I encountered as the seasons changed, but for some reason, I feel that the outlines of the details in my summer memories are sharper.
"You're such a quiet child, I can never tell if you're there or not," the adults around me used to say.
When summer vacation arrived, I would go out into the garden as soon as I woke up. I would touch the morning glory flowers and vines to confirm their softness, and stare at the raindrops scattered like jewels on a spider's web. After studying at a small desk on the veranda before the sun got too high, I would spend my time reading books or playing with jigsaw puzzles on the tatami mats of the Buddhist altar room, which remained dim even at midday.
Thinking back on it now, I believe I simply preferred the time spent focusing only on what was right in front of me. A moment like standing at the bottom of a lake, in a world where sound has been lost. I remember the coolness of the flowers that wrapped around the silence of early morning, the delicacy of the spider silk swaying in the wind, and the rough texture of the tatami mat edges, but the colors of the feelings that must have been in my heart at that time do not remain in my memory.
When I look up from the book, and from the sea of memory, the surrounding noise suddenly rushes into my ears, and for a moment, I don't know where I am.
I have a feeling that I will remember this moment someday—no, even before that, as I write these words, I am tracing the scene of an afternoon from a few days ago, but the 'me' of that day and the 'me' of today are already separated by time.
When I write, I always feel as if I am filming a scene. I can see the child sitting on the tatami reading a book, and the back of the person walking through the noren of the sweet shop. I wonder who exactly it is that is spinning these words while watching those figures in the deepening night.
When I first read my own writing translated into English, I felt that the subject "I" had a high saturation. It was like looking at a landscape through glasses with a prescription that was too strong, and I was overcome by a slight dizziness.
While contemplating the mystery of the Japanese language, which functions even when the subject is omitted, I am surprised, as if for the first time, at how naturally that hazy prose fits my body.
Can a solid "I" truly exist at all?
If I were to dare to place a subject, I think it would be a personhood that draws a marble pattern, existing in the space between "I" and "she." And from time to time, the curves of the pattern and the composition of the colors shift and change moment by moment.
I stand up and open the window.
A languid, lukewarm breeze and the scent of damp earth flowed in.
Seaweed green and tea-brown colors were poured slowly into the blue of the night.
As I gazed at those colors, the waves of sleep and the afterimages of shimmering leaves flickered, and it felt as though my words and thoughts were melting away into my memories.
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