🍀The Bond of Life Passed from Hand to Hand
"Hands"
—The Rugged Hands of a Stubborn Showa-Era Father
My father was the quintessential Showa-era man.
Because he ran a business, he was charming when out in public,
cracking jokes with customers
and lightening the mood.
However,
it was different when he came home—
he was silent, blunt, and had an atmosphere that made him somewhat unapproachable.
Even so, people would often tell me, "Your old man is so funny," but
he wasn't funny at all at home, haha.
It wasn't that he had a split personality,
it was probably just his business persona, haha.
To me, the "home with my father"
had a different face, far removed from the shop where laughter never ceased.
But it wasn't like he was abusive or anything, haha.
That said, if I did something wrong, I would be made to sit formally in the hallway, or I would get hit with a broom—not a "butt-bat," but a "butt-broom," haha.
Still, I thought that was just how things were back then, and
all the other fathers in the world
were surely the same—
bright outside, worn out from work, and at home, silent,
blunt, and perhaps appearing a bit scary.
Also, thinking back now, fathers in the old days
all had a strong sense of paternal dignity and were strict with their children; that was the common sense of the time... The Showa era was that kind of age.
My family had four siblings.
The composition was "girl, boy, boy, boy,"
and I was the third child, the second son.
The age gap between the siblings was three years between the eldest daughter, my older brother, and me, and four years between me and my youngest brother; naturally, until the youngest was born, I was the youngest.
There is a ten-year gap between the oldest and the youngest.
So, when the youngest was born, my father
was, as expected, especially fond of him.
To my parents and those around us,
that was a natural feeling, and I think it couldn't be helped.
However, it's a common story that
"when a younger brother or sister is born, the middle child who was the youngest until then
feels a bit lonely."
I, too, had those feelings a little bit back then.
In that sense, among the four siblings, I might have had the shortest period of being fussed over by my father and mother.
But that doesn't mean I wasn't loved at all.
Thinking about it normally, the first child born was a girl.
Of course, they were happy.
The next was my older brother, a boy. Since he was the first son,
they must have been happy about that too.
And then, me. A boy, and at the time, the youngest.
So I do have faint memories of being doted on.
However, four years later, my younger brother was born.
So I think I was only really fussed over until I was about three.
But I don't resent that, haha.
Even when my father went somewhere,
he almost never went out to have fun with the family.
Even so,
there were times he took us to watch baseball or to a small amusement park in town.
But other than that, memories of "going somewhere with my old man"
hardly remain.
So naturally, unlike typical families,
there were no scenes of parents and children holding hands.
Even so,
I thought that was natural, so
I don't think I thought much of it at the time.
However, deep down, after I stopped being fussed over when my younger brother was born,
I think I had a desire to "hold hands with my old man."
I don't know what my father was thinking.
But thinking about it now, as a Showa-era father, or perhaps as a man,
did he think holding hands with a child was something women did?
Or was he just somehow "embarrassed"?
I have a feeling that might be it.
Even so, when we occasionally went out somewhere,
I would sometimes walk beside my father.
I think my mother was holding my younger brother's hand.
My father and I were walking side by side,
and then suddenly, I reached out to hold my father's hand.
That was probably the first time I had ever done such a thing.
I don't even know why I did it so suddenly.
Thinking back now,
perhaps my suppressed emotions had suddenly burst out.
My father's hand was rugged, truly the hand of a man.
He was running a business then, but originally, he had worked in the family trade, doing carpentry-related work handling wood and making furniture, so it seems he did a lot of manual labor when he was young.
Back then, manual labor was the norm for men; it required physical strength and carrying heavy loads.
So naturally, his hands became rugged like that.
And when I suddenly grabbed my father's hand tightly,
my father seemed a little surprised for a moment.
However, he didn't pull away,
and although he looked a little embarrassed, I don't know the truth of it.
My hand was still small, and
I could only hold his pinky and ring finger.
I remember holding his hand for dear life
so that it wouldn't slip away.
Even so, my father didn't smile,
and without saying a word, we just kept walking together.
I feel like that happened two or three times,
but I don't remember it well anymore.
What my father was thinking at that time,
I don't know.
But in that moment,
I was incredibly happy, and the sensation of my father's rugged hand
is something I still remember very vividly.
Decades have passed since then,
and my father
suffered from kidney disease, diabetes, heart disease, and more,
it was like a parade of illnesses.
In the end, he started dialysis,
and seeing my father gradually grow weaker,
I felt lonely, but
I resigned myself to it, thinking, "It can't be helped, he's sick."
My father was in and out of the hospital and passed away at 69.
And that was the day before he died.
When I went to visit him in the hospital, my father was no longer conscious,
just lying in bed, on an IV drip and oxygen.
I brought a chair next to my father sleeping in the bed
and sat down.
Then, I pulled my father's hand, connected to the IV, toward me,
wrapped it in both of my hands,
layered his hand over mine, and squeezed it tightly.
It was the first time I had held my father's hand since that memory from my childhood.
Over the last few years, having been in and out of the hospital,
my father had used his hands less and less.
So, when I held his hand,
the rugged texture of the past was gone,
and it had turned into a smooth, clean, and gentle hand.
I slowly opened my father's palm
and compared it to my own palm.
Not only the shape of the hand, but the palm lines were surprisingly similar.
"I really am my father's son..."
The moment I thought that again, tears came naturally.
I kept holding my father's hand for a while.
The next day, my father traveled to heaven.
—A few years after that, my son was born.
I still wish my father could have seen his grandson.
But that is a dream that cannot be fulfilled, and it cannot be helped.
For a while after my son was born, my wife and son stayed at her parents' home,
and I was allowed to stay there with them.
I placed my son's hand, who was sleeping on a small futon,
on top of my hand,
and opened his palm.
Then,
the palm lines were just like mine,
and I really laughed.
In that moment, I remembered.
Before my father passed away,
in the hospital bed,
when I was an adult,
the time I held my father's hand for the first time.
Now, looking at my son's small palm,
that memory came back to me.
My son with the same palm lines as me, and my father with the same hands as me.
"The blood is connected after all..."
Thinking that, I felt very happy.
Since then, as my son grew from a baby to a child,
I took him to many places.
Perhaps that was because
I had a desire to have gone to many places with my father.
And when we went out,
I would always hold my son's hand tightly,
and I would never let go.
Wherever we went.
That might be what my younger self
wanted my father to do for me.
"Holding hands."
Connecting from hand to hand.
Surely, that is what it means to "connect life."
Written by Takeshi Takamatsu
September 18, 2025
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