Canon's Diary

Monday, May 26th.
The sky is overcast again today. After breakfast, I filled my thermos with coffee and headed to work. It felt a little chilly for this season. I crossed the railroad tracks and made my way through the shopping street toward Settsu-Tonda Station. I left home around 7:30, and at that hour, the streets are crowded with students on bicycles and office workers in suits.
Beyond the station, the narrow alleys leading toward the company naturally form a line of people heading in the same direction. With about a thousand employees working at the Osaka headquarters, the morning commute always becomes a procession.
I recently noticed that many of my colleagues wear very casual clothes on their way to work—T-shirts, jeans, and such. Since we change into company uniforms once we arrive, there’s no dress code for commuting. Having only visited headquarters on business trips before, I was used to wearing a suit, so I felt a bit out of place.

As soon as I arrived at the office, I greeted the president, division head, and department manager to thank them for sending condolence telegrams for my father’s funeral. Perhaps it was just a formality for them, but I deeply appreciated it.
Once the workday began, my mind quickly filled with project outlines and technical documents. The sounds of typing, mouse clicks, distant conversations between engineers, sales reps talking with clients on their phones, and documents being printed—
the office was filled with the noise of work.
Unlike working from home, being in the office makes me feel firmly grounded in reality.

Just then, a LINE message came from my mother and sister. The city hospital had called the house in Tokyo to let us know that my father’s hospitalization certificate was ready for pickup. I exchanged a few messages with my sister, but the conversation ended midway.
It stayed on my mind, but I got swept up in work and couldn’t get back to her. A few colleagues spoke to me about my father’s passing.
Before I knew it, the workday had come to an end.

Since I had wrapped things up, I left the office on time. Even at 5 PM, the sky was still bright. I always find summer evenings hot after a bath, so I stopped by a home improvement store on the way home and bought a cheap fan.
Then I picked up some chili oil from the supermarket to go with frozen dumplings I plan to eat tomorrow.

Back in my room, I turned on the orange light of my desk lamp. I played some jazz on the new audio system and made cabbage soup in the kitchen.
I poured soy sauce over rice with a raw egg on top.
Lately, I’ve been drinking more than usual, so I kept the Scotch to a minimum tonight.
I sent a LINE message to my mother asking if she was able to pick up the hospitalization certificate, but there was no reply yet. It was 7:30 PM.
At that time of day, she’s probably in the bath. My wife likely hasn’t come home from work yet.

Around 8:30, my mother finally replied. I had only waited an hour, but part of my heart had been quietly unsettled the entire time.
It would be a lie to say I don’t worry about my mother, now alone after my father’s passing.
My wife works on weekdays, so she spend most evenings alone in her room.

Later, my mother messaged me again to say that my wife had helped her fill out documents to change the name on the home fire insurance policy.
Knowing that—despite always voicing frustrations about my mother—my wife had helped her out made me happy.

For now, I plan to stay in close contact with both of them.
Perhaps, by cherishing each moment like this, little by little, my everyday life will return.