Canon's Diary

Saturday, May 17th.
It had been raining since the morning. I woke up past nine.
When I went downstairs to the living room, my sister was showing our mother videos of her children taken at her house. My mother and sister appeared in the footage too. There were also clips from their visits to our home, including one where Canon was joyfully hopping around. My mother’s voice grew livelier. My sister knows how to lift her spirits.

I had a late breakfast, took a shower, and sat back in my reclining chair. I turned on the fan, letting the breeze dry my wet hair. Folding my hands over my abdomen, I stared blankly at a single point in front of me.
I wasn’t really looking at anything. The only sound was the hum of the fan.
For a moment, it felt like time had stopped.
Then I came to, and covered my face with my hands.
There was still much to do today.

My mother had been looking for a longer chain for the pendant that holds the ashes. I gave her the chain from the pendant that holds Canon’s ashes. I had already replaced mine with a handmade one.
With my sister’s help, my mother was filling out the insurance claim paperwork.
My father’s funeral is tomorrow.
My wife, my sister’s husband, and her daughters will also be attending.
Now that I think about it, I need to dye my hair soon. I’ve scheduled an appointment at the salon for tomorrow evening, after the funeral.

At 1 PM today, a separate group of visitors was expected to see my father.
At the same time, a member of the Soka Gakkai youth division, who will lead the funeral service, was scheduled to come to our home for a meeting.
I left that to my mother and sister, both members of the Gakkai, and decided to meet the visitors at the funeral home instead.

After finishing an early lunch, I got in the car.
The rain had grown heavier since the morning, with large droplets streaming down the windshield.
The trees lining Keyaki Street looked as though they were welcoming the rain with open arms.
But the scent of the rain didn’t reach inside the closed car.

Time never truly stops.
But sometimes, it feels as though it does.
And in those moments, perhaps something truly important quietly reveals itself.