Canon's Diary

Last night, I took a long soak in the bath and turned off the lights at 11 p.m. before going to bed. I must have fallen into a deep sleep, because when I awoke, it was already 9 in the morning. For the past few days, I had been living with a persistent sense of fatigue, but that night’s rest brought a bit of relief to my body.

Since around March, I had been frequently traveling back and forth between Tokyo and Osaka. With a solo relocation approaching, I had been busy preparing for the move when the news of my father’s passing reached me. It all felt a bit overwhelming and unsettled. When I received word that his condition had worsened, I was in the middle of laying down floor mats in my new place in Osaka. The furniture was still scattered randomly across the room, and the pork and vegetables I had bought to cook for myself were likely already spoiled. I should have moved them to the freezer before leaving, but my mind wasn’t clear enough to think of it. Still, there was nothing to be done.

I stepped out onto the balcony and took in the view. I let myself bask in the sunlight. The breeze was soft, and the air was warm against my skin. Birds were chirping, and clouds slowly drifted from south to north. From downstairs, I could hear a CD of my father playing the guitar. It was easy to imagine that my mother had placed his photo on the table and was listening to it.

At 2 p.m. today, my father’s friends were scheduled to visit the funeral hall and bid him farewell. My mother and I also made our way there. After a 20-minute drive, we arrived at Yasuragi Hall Machida. Ours was the only car in the parking lot. As we passed through the entrance, a staff member greeted us, but there was no sign of anyone else. The air inside was hushed and still.

It had been three days since I last saw my father. He looked peaceful. My mother placed sprigs of shikimi and his photo beside his body and began to speak to him through her sobs. I couldn’t do anything but quietly watch.

About twenty minutes later, a group of about eleven of my father’s friends arrived. We exchanged greetings. Many of them were also familiar with my mother and offered her words of comfort. Overcome with emotion, she leaned into the group as if collapsing into their warmth and wept. She was enveloped in their kindness.

The group entered the mortuary room, where they collectively chanted a sutra three times, then offered incense one by one. My mother and I stood by and watched, bowing in gratitude to each guest as they exited. I was deeply thankful that there were people who would come and offer prayers in front of my father like this. I heard that another group would visit again on Saturday.

After returning home, I prepared to go out again. I had plans to meet a classmate from high school—now a judicial scrivener—for dinner in Shibuya. I wanted to ask for professional advice on matters of inheritance, though for now, our direction remains unchanged: to follow my father’s wishes, have my mother inherit his estate, and then, after her passing, my sister and I will discuss what to do next.