Canon's Diary

Saturday, September 6, 2025. The typhoon that had swept across Japan the day before left the Tokaido Shinkansen badly delayed. Having given up on returning to Tokyo yesterday, I boarded the Nozomi 116 this morning after taking a JR line into Kyoto. A white Nike cap pulled low over my eyes, a beige Uniqlo T-shirt, black sports pants, and high-cut black Converse on my feet. Two tennis rackets and a large bag in my hands.

The sky, freshly cleared after the storm, stretched brilliantly blue. In the morning, the air was still pleasant, but by noon the fierce heat had returned. Through the train window, the mountains shimmered in the sunlight, their greenery glistening as if polished. At Kyoto Station I bought a sandwich, which I ate with the coffee I had brought from home. The train was crowded with families and foreign tourists, the overhead racks crammed with oversized suitcases.

Tomorrow is a team tennis match in Machida. My sense for competition has dulled, so I had arranged to practice this afternoon with old friends in Tokyo. My wife would join as well. I wanted to feel the bounce and pace of the ball on the same court surface as tomorrow’s venue.

At Naruse Station, my wife was waiting in the car.
“I bought them—garlic, chili peppers, and parsley.”
“Thanks. We’ve got pasta at home, right?”
Though we’d been in touch through LINE, it had been almost a month since we last met. Still, it didn’t feel like much time had passed. Tonight we had promised to cook peperoncino together.

After resting a little at home, we headed to the courts in Naruse. The sun was strong, but with practice starting at three o’clock, the heat was gentler than it had been around Obon. I focused on the themes I wanted to work on, letting the feel of the ball return to my hands. It had been a while since we all gathered. We caught up on each other’s lives, and I shared my recent days in Osaka. The mood was easy, the play relaxed. Adjusting to the bounce on this different surface was a challenge, but as preparation for tomorrow, the practice was more than enough.

Back home after a shower, I began cooking the peperoncino. Garlic and chili sautéed in oil, pasta tossed in while still steaming. But I had added too much chili. The result was fiery, almost punishing. With gulps of barley tea I managed to finish the plate, laughing with my wife and mother afterward about how to get it right next time. Another lesson, I suppose.

Later, with dinner behind me, I sat in my room with a glass of Scotch, the lights dimmed so that sleep might come easily. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks cracked against the night sky. Festival season. As a child I loved those summer fairs—the goldfish scooping, the ring toss, the cork guns at the shooting stands. Long ago, yet vivid in fragments. Who was I with back then? A classmate from grade school? Or was I alone? I can’t quite remember.

The fragments rise and fade, drifting faintly across the summer night sky.