Afterword

To everyone who read my previous article, thank you so much.

I am deeply honored that far more people read it than I had imagined, and that I received so many warm comments as well.

Since the first Obon season since her passing arrived so quickly, I would like to talk a little more about my mother, whom I couldn't fully write about in the last article.

To be honest, I have never really paid much attention to Obon in my life until now.

I am currently in my 20s, but this is not the first time a relative has passed away. In fact, most of my close relatives have already passed on.

My maternal grandfather died in a work-related accident when my mother was three years old (he worked for a construction company).

And my paternal grandmother had already passed away from illness before my parents met, so in short, I have never met either of them.

As for my maternal grandmother, she passed away from cancer when I was in my first year of junior high school. My mother was one of three siblings, but as mentioned, my grandfather died young, so my grandmother raised them all on her own. That grandmother passed away at the age of 70.
My grandmother's death was my first experience with the loss of someone close to me, so I still vividly remember the emotions and experiences of that time. It was also my first experience with a wake and a funeral.

Then, two years later, my paternal uncle (my father's younger brother) died suddenly of a stroke at the age of 53.
He was generally a man of few words in front of anyone other than my father, so I didn't exchange many words with him, but we used to go on trips and out to eat as a family, so at the time, I just couldn't grasp the reality that those things would never happen again.

My uncle's death was sad, needless to say, but I remember even more strongly how I felt for my father.
My father and uncle were so close that they would often go out drinking together, and his beloved younger brother had suddenly passed away at the young age of 53.

Then, when I was in my third year of high school, my paternal grandfather passed away. He had no major illnesses and died of old age at 90.
He already had dementia by the time I was old enough to understand things, so I have no memory of having a real conversation with him. In fact, I feel like the first time I properly met him was at my uncle's funeral.
By the time of my uncle's funeral, my grandfather's dementia had progressed significantly, and he didn't even seem to realize he was attending his own son's funeral, but in a way, that might have been a blessing. I don't have children yet, but the thought of a son passing away before his parents is enough to make my heart ache.

No one knows if my grandfather remembered everything just before he died, but the last face I saw at his funeral looked somewhat peaceful.

With things like this, I had very few close relatives, but two months ago, I finally lost my mother as well, and the number of relatives whose faces I can picture is now down to just a handful.

Every time I fall into this line of thinking, I can't help but think about my father.
My father has seen off his parents, his only younger brother, and his beloved wife. We, his sons, are the only blood relatives he has left.

I don't know the details of how my parents met, but it seems my father fell in love at first sight with my mother, who was 10 years his junior, and they married after he pursued her relentlessly.

At the time, my mother was apparently quite a beauty (I was told this many times by her), and to win over my mother, who was out of his league, my father lost nearly 40 kilograms from his weight of nearly 100 kilograms through a grueling diet, and he was able to start dating her as he had hoped.
I remember my mother often boasting to me that people used to call them 'Beauty and the Beast.' I have been shown photos from that time, and there were indeed several where I thought, 'Are they parent and child?'
Regardless, thanks to the two of them meeting, I am here today.

One month before she passed away, my mother wrote a letter to the whole family in secret.

The letter addressed to my father read as follows.

This was the first and last time in my life that I saw a letter my mother wrote to my father.

My father wrote a reply to the letter while crying.

It was just a single sheet of stationery, but I felt as though everything of the time they spent together was engraved there.

Having watched my father and mother from the front row as their son, I truly feel that there aren't many couples as wonderful as they were.
Looking back, I have never once seen them fighting.
That is surely thanks to my father.
Even after my mother got cancer, my father handled the housework, hospital visits, and various procedures without ever showing a pained expression. Even in a situation where he could have easily become a shell of himself, he always acted cheerful in front of us, his family.

And my mother, even while battling her illness, didn't show much weakness to the family and did her very best until the end.

I am proud of the two of them for showing me that.

The anxiety of whether I will be able to build such a wonderful family myself sometimes crosses my mind.
Did my mother, who looked so strong, also feel her own share of anxiety and dissatisfaction when we were small?

The other day, while organizing my mother's belongings, I accidentally discovered a clipping of a newspaper article from several decades ago.
It seems to be an article from when a piece my mother submitted to a 'child-rearing column' that the newspaper was soliciting happened to be published.

The way she uses words is so like her that it makes me laugh.

When I finished reading it, I felt that the anxiety inside me had shrunk just a little bit.