Canon's Diary

My younger sister sent me a photo from my niece’s entrance ceremony at Waseda University.
My mother and I replied with our congratulations.
In the picture, my niece stood between her parents, giving a small, slightly shy peace sign.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my mother, who lives alone at our family home.
Almost every day, I send her photos of the meals I eat, speaking to her through them as if we were sharing the same table.
My sister is part of the group chat as well, and before I knew it, conversations among the three of us had grown more frequent.
At some point, my phone’s storage quietly filled up with images of food.

In April, a personnel reshuffle brought changes to our organizational structure.
I suppose my company sees more internal movement than most.
Our department, newly formed last year and overwhelmed with work, gained three new members and is now a team of six.
Two are female assistants, and one is a veteran man from the design department.

With the reorganization came a rearrangement of the office floor, and the veteran designer now sits beside me.
I welcomed the presence of new colleagues with genuine relief.
He is perhaps a little over fifty—his hair streaked with white, his manner quiet, yet his expression carries a firm, unshakable core.
He answers, without hesitation, questions that would normally take me hours to research, and he asks me things just as easily when he is unsure.
Before long, we found ourselves sharing lunch together in the company cafeteria.

The cafeteria is spacious, with employees arriving in staggered waves; it can probably hold around two hundred people.
Though the building is old, soft sunlight filters through large windows, and people enjoy their meals in their own quiet ways.
That day’s lunch was mackerel marinated in curry, pumpkin salad, and spinach dressed with whitebait.
Before eating, we place our hands together at the same moment.
Casual conversation over an ordinary meal.
There is still a trace of awkwardness, but I can feel the tension gently loosen.
At work, his gaze is sharp, so seeing his expression soften during lunch brings me a quiet sense of ease.

Last Sunday, after the rain had passed, I managed to see the cherry blossoms in full bloom at Tsutsuiike Park.
The petals had already begun to fall, forming a soft carpet along the small stream beside the park.
I had never imagined such a scene could exist in a place so ordinary.

Today is bright and clear again.
When I open the window and look outside, the blossoms have already almost disappeared.
The days when cherry blossoms are in full bloom last only a fleeting moment each year.
Perhaps it is their fragility that makes us cherish them so deeply.

As always, I set the washing machine in motion and begin cleaning the room.
As always, I boil soba, chop cabbage, and make a soup with pork, carrots, and enoki mushrooms.
Feeling the quiet shift of the seasons against my skin, I sense my loneliness softening, little by little.
I’ve begun to have small conversations with people at my tennis school, and new colleagues have entered my daily life.

Before I knew it, like the passing of the seasons, my heart too has begun to loosen, gently and without force.
The season of fresh green is already close at hand.