Dark Ink Brush

The address on a condolence envelope should be written in light ink.

When I was a rookie, a senior in the general affairs department taught me that it signifies that the ink has been diluted by the tears of grief. For twenty years, I have never run out of that light-ink brush pen.

At nine o'clock at night, only the light at my desk remains on in the general affairs floor. I am going through the documents collected from each department one by one, clearing up any deficiencies in preparation for next week's audit. Missing seals, date discrepancies, approval documents without attachments. I have never thought of this as cleaning up after others. My job was to be the checkpoint that ensured everything was fine once it passed through here.

The extension rang. It was the sales manager.

Ms. Kurihara, regarding tomorrow's funeral, could you handle the condolence money for us? I know I can count on you to get it right.

I have the envelopes ready. Please just let me confirm the names first thing in the morning.

I put down the receiver and open the bottom drawer of my desk. Bundles of celebration envelopes and condolence envelopes are neatly lined up by purpose. Musubikiri knots, butterfly knots, lotus patterns, plain ones. No matter what news comes, I can prepare an envelope that same day.

It was Tajima-san, who has since retired, who taught me this.

General affairs also doubles as the company's ceremonial affairs department. You must be someone who doesn't get flustered when something major happens in people's lives.

I have kept that instruction for twenty years. The younger staff laugh and say, The section chief's drawer has a better selection than a convenience store. Maybe so. Every time something happens in someone's life, I have opened this drawer.

I have turned forty-four. I am single and have no children.

For the past twenty-some years, I have attended almost every drinking party. Welcome parties, farewell parties, kickoff meetings, and nameless gripe sessions. I think the number of times I've acted as an organizer reaches into the triple digits. I have given speeches at three of my peers' weddings and even handled the reception for the after-parties. There were times when I would return home on the last train and leave on one close to the first.

My mother back home always goes silent at the same point whenever we talk on the phone.

It's fine that you're busy with work, but when will you, for your own...

To keep her from finishing that sentence, I always covered it up by talking about audits or financial settlements. There wasn't a single lie in that. I was just constantly pushing my own turn to the back of the line.

When I was thirty-four, while on a business trip in Kanazawa, a department manager at a client company I was indebted to held my hand. It was at a hotel bar, our second stop of the night. He told me a story with a script like, My wife and I aren't getting along, if only someone like you were by my side.

I pulled my hand away and grabbed the bill first.

Let's make tomorrow's business negotiation a good one. That is what I came here for.

He laughed awkwardly, and the next day's negotiation concluded with the best terms ever. When I heard a few years later that he had remarried, I took a musubikiri envelope from my usual drawer and wrote my own name in the sender's column.

I felt as though the tip of the brush pen trembled slightly, but my handwriting did not falter. My handwriting never falters at times like these.

That is how I have lived my life. Every time an executive told me, "This company wouldn't function without you, Kurihara-san," I didn't feel bad. It was the truth, and I had shaped myself to ensure it remained the truth.

The next morning, first thing, I handed the condolence envelope to the sales department. As if to trade places with it, Maho returned to the floor after her maternity leave.

Back on the floor for the first time in a year, she was a little thinner, and her expression had softened as a result. At the end of her rounds to greet everyone, she came to my desk and bowed deeply.

"Section Chief, thank you very much."

Thinking she was thanking me for the handover, I started to say, "It's fine," but Maho continued.

"Because you were here, Section Chief, I was able to give birth with peace of mind. While I was away, I never once felt anxious about work. My husband even told me there's no other workplace like this. I can even consider having a second child because of this place."

I was happy. I was so happy I couldn't even speak.

It felt like I had been struck in a completely different place than when I was told, "It wouldn't function without me." I had become the ground upon which someone else could move forward in life.

After Maho returned to her desk, I unconsciously opened the bottom drawer.

I looked at the stack of envelopes with eyes that seemed to be counting them for the first time.

Wedding gifts, birth gifts. Get-well gifts, condolence money. Over these twenty years, every envelope that left this drawer was addressed to a milestone in someone else's life. I was always the one to pick up the brush, and even if my name was on the envelope, it was always in the "sender" column.

I have never once taken an envelope addressed to me out of this drawer.

Because I never had a reason to.

The ground only becomes the ground when it is stepped on by someone. The pride I felt in that, and the fact that I had put off my own milestones as many times as I had been stepped on, were lined up neatly in a bundle inside the same drawer.

In the evening, Maho came to my desk once more. She held out a small paper bag.

"This is a return gift. It's a bit late, but I wanted to hand it to you personally, Section Chief."

On the gift paper was the baby's name. And tucked into the paper bag was a small envelope, with my name written on the front as the recipient.

It had been a very long time since I had seen my own name written by someone else rather than writing it myself.

On the card inside the envelope, it said in round handwriting:

"When it's your turn, Section Chief, I will be the first to contribute. Your turn hasn't passed yet, you know."

I rolled the word 'order' around in my mouth for a while. It seems I am still supposed to be standing in a line I thought I had long since left. It was funny, and my eyes grew a little hot, so I just replied, 'You're getting ahead of yourself.'

On my way home, I stopped by the stationery store in front of the station.

Next to the usual light-ink brush pen, there was a dark-ink brush pen. The finest one, for celebratory occasions.

I bought one.

The ink for celebrations is dark because it won't be diluted by tears of joy. For the first time, I created a meaning for myself that no one had taught me.

I haven't decided who I will use it for yet.