use different tofu. They don’t sell this kind of tofu over where you live, Tsukiko, do they?
After that, my mother fell silent. I was quiet too. Without speaking, I demolished the yudofu , dousing it with the saké soy sauce as I ate it. Neither of us said a word. Didn’t we have anything to talk about? There must have been something. But as I tried to think of what to say, my mind went blank. You’d think we’d be close, but it was precisely because we were close that we couldn’t reach each other. Forcing myself to make conversation felt like standing on a cliff, peering over the edge, about to tumble down headfirst.
Tsukiko, the way you describe it sounds like how I might feel if, after all these years, I suddenly encountered my wife who ran away. But this is your family, who lives in the same neighborhood as you do. Surely you’re exaggerating a bit, aren’t you? That’s what Sensei might say.
He might have pointed out that my mother and I seemed similar. Nevertheless, neither one of us was any good at chitchat. So we just avoided each other’s gaze until my brother and his family returned. The pale new year’s light shone on the veranda, reaching all the way to the foot of the kotatsu . Having finished eating, I carried the earthenware pot and small plates and chopsticks into the kitchen where my mother was at the sink. Shall I dry the dishes? I asked. My mother nodded, barely raising her head and smiling awkwardly. I smiled back just as uncomfortably. We stood next to each other silently and finished up the dishes.
I WENT BACK to my apartment on the fourth of January, and for the next two days until I had to go back to work on the sixth, all I did was sleep. Unlike while I was at my mother’s house, this sleep was filled with dreams.
After two days of work, I found myself off again. I wasn’t really tired anymore, so I just lazed in bed. I kept a teapot and teacup within
arm’s reach, along with various books and magazines, and lay about while drinking tea and flipping through the pages. I ate a couple of mandarin oranges. Under the covers it was slightly warmer than my own body temperature, so I kept dozing off. Soon I’d awake again, and pick up another magazine. That was how I had forgotten to eat all day.
Back atop my unmade bed, I held toilet paper to the bleeding wound on the sole of my foot as I waited for the dizzy spell to subside. My vision seemed like a TV screen on the fritz, flickering and flashing. I lay down on my back and placed one hand over my heart. There was a slight delay between the beat of my heart and the throbbing pulse of my wound.
It had still been faintly light outside when the bulb had gone out. But now, because I was still dizzy, I couldn’t tell whether or not it was twilight or if it had grown dark already.
Apples heaped in a basket by my pillow gave off their fragrance. The perfume was intensified by the chilly winter air. I always quartered my apples before peeling them but, as I lay there in a daze, I thought of how my mother used a kitchen knife to peel an apple whole, in one long curly piece. I once peeled an apple for an old boyf riend. I was never much good at cooking anyway, but even if I had been, I had no particular interest in packing lunches for him or going to his place to cook for him or inviting him over for home-cooked meals. I was always afraid that doing so would put me in a compromising position—trapped in the kitchen, so to speak. And I didn’t want him to think that he was the one who had put me there either. It may not have mattered whether or not I found myself trapped there, but somehow I couldn’t manage to make light of it.
When I peeled the apple, my boyfriend was astonished. So, you can peel an apple, huh? That’s how he said it.
I think I can manage, I replied.
Is that so?
Yes, it is.
Not long after this exchange, this boyfriend and I drifted apart. Neither one of us actually initiated it; we simply stopped calling
After that, my mother fell silent. I was quiet too. Without speaking, I demolished the yudofu , dousing it with the saké soy sauce as I ate it. Neither of us said a word. Didn’t we have anything to talk about? There must have been something. But as I tried to think of what to say, my mind went blank. You’d think we’d be close, but it was precisely because we were close that we couldn’t reach each other. Forcing myself to make conversation felt like standing on a cliff, peering over the edge, about to tumble down headfirst.
Tsukiko, the way you describe it sounds like how I might feel if, after all these years, I suddenly encountered my wife who ran away. But this is your family, who lives in the same neighborhood as you do. Surely you’re exaggerating a bit, aren’t you? That’s what Sensei might say.
He might have pointed out that my mother and I seemed similar. Nevertheless, neither one of us was any good at chitchat. So we just avoided each other’s gaze until my brother and his family returned. The pale new year’s light shone on the veranda, reaching all the way to the foot of the kotatsu . Having finished eating, I carried the earthenware pot and small plates and chopsticks into the kitchen where my mother was at the sink. Shall I dry the dishes? I asked. My mother nodded, barely raising her head and smiling awkwardly. I smiled back just as uncomfortably. We stood next to each other silently and finished up the dishes.
I WENT BACK to my apartment on the fourth of January, and for the next two days until I had to go back to work on the sixth, all I did was sleep. Unlike while I was at my mother’s house, this sleep was filled with dreams.
After two days of work, I found myself off again. I wasn’t really tired anymore, so I just lazed in bed. I kept a teapot and teacup within
arm’s reach, along with various books and magazines, and lay about while drinking tea and flipping through the pages. I ate a couple of mandarin oranges. Under the covers it was slightly warmer than my own body temperature, so I kept dozing off. Soon I’d awake again, and pick up another magazine. That was how I had forgotten to eat all day.
Back atop my unmade bed, I held toilet paper to the bleeding wound on the sole of my foot as I waited for the dizzy spell to subside. My vision seemed like a TV screen on the fritz, flickering and flashing. I lay down on my back and placed one hand over my heart. There was a slight delay between the beat of my heart and the throbbing pulse of my wound.
It had still been faintly light outside when the bulb had gone out. But now, because I was still dizzy, I couldn’t tell whether or not it was twilight or if it had grown dark already.
Apples heaped in a basket by my pillow gave off their fragrance. The perfume was intensified by the chilly winter air. I always quartered my apples before peeling them but, as I lay there in a daze, I thought of how my mother used a kitchen knife to peel an apple whole, in one long curly piece. I once peeled an apple for an old boyf riend. I was never much good at cooking anyway, but even if I had been, I had no particular interest in packing lunches for him or going to his place to cook for him or inviting him over for home-cooked meals. I was always afraid that doing so would put me in a compromising position—trapped in the kitchen, so to speak. And I didn’t want him to think that he was the one who had put me there either. It may not have mattered whether or not I found myself trapped there, but somehow I couldn’t manage to make light of it.
When I peeled the apple, my boyfriend was astonished. So, you can peel an apple, huh? That’s how he said it.
I think I can manage, I replied.
Is that so?
Yes, it is.
Not long after this exchange, this boyfriend and I drifted apart. Neither one of us actually initiated it; we simply stopped calling
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