Canon's Diary

Sunday, May 25. The sky was a little overcast, and perhaps because I hadn’t slept well the night before, my mind felt a bit foggy. After breakfast, I spent the entire morning cleaning my room. I finished cutting the floor mats I had left half-done, shaping them to fit the room. I carefully placed a small dish rack and TV board on top of the mats and set up the coffee maker, rice cooker, and electric kettle. On the TV stand, I placed a compact stereo amplifier and small speakers, then connected the audio cables. There’s no CD player, but I can stream music from my smartphone via Bluetooth, which sounds good enough. As long as I keep the volume low enough not to disturb my neighbors, I can enjoy jazz at night. The TV connects to YouTube and Amazon Prime Video, so I’ll be able to quietly watch movies or tennis matches in the evening.

—Now, I’ve finally finished what I started two weeks ago. Back then, I received a call that my father had fallen unconscious, and I dropped everything to rush to Tokyo.

By lunchtime, everything in the fridge had spoiled, so I bought a salad and cold basil pasta at the convenience store. After eating, fatigue caught up with me, and I found myself idly sitting, doing nothing. When moments like that come, a quiet and inescapable sadness rises from deep within. I imagine my mother, now left alone, might be feeling the same. I thought about messaging her, but decided against it. It’s hard to explain why. The bond between parent and child, formed over so many years, can’t be captured in simple words.

Around 3 PM, I went out for groceries and took a short walk around the neighborhood. From my room on the sixth floor, I could see a large library and a pond, so I wanted to visit them. I changed out of my black Nike sweats into a pair of light blue jeans. There was a slight breeze as I opened the door, took the elevator, and stepped out into the open air.

The sky remained overcast. The weather hasn’t been great lately. I headed east, toward the library. Right next to my building is a small bus terminal, and just beyond that is the library—almost within arm’s reach. The sign read “Takatsuki City Koderaike Library.” Though old, it was a clean and well-maintained facility. The interior was spacious, with books in every genre: philosophy, religion, history, academics, business, self-help, and of course, fiction. Many people sat at tables or on benches, each absorbed in their reading. It might be nice to come here now and then—reading alone at home can feel isolating.

After leaving the library, I continued east, turned right down a small alley, and after about 50 meters, arrived at Kodera Pond. It’s roughly 100 meters square and covered with lotus leaves. From my sixth-floor window, I’d seen movement on the water—now I knew what it was. Large koi were swimming in the pond. The pond is fenced off, with a walkway surrounding it. As I peeked through the fence, the koi noticed my shadow and gathered at the surface, rippling the water as if asking for food. One particularly large koi rolled on its side, as if looking at me with one eye. The walkway had benches where people could bring lunch and enjoy a peaceful meal. I slowly walked around the pond. The koi followed me.

After a full circle around the pond, I returned to the street near the station. I crossed the railroad tracks and stopped at the supermarket closest to my apartment, buying vegetables, pork, and eggs. For dinner, I had a retort-pack keema curry and stir-fried spinach and bacon with butter.

It was a quiet, unhurried day. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the Osaka headquarters. The ordinary days are beginning again—softly rippling, like waves on the surface of water. I’ve decided to properly restart tennis again. Staying cooped up at home will only weigh me down.