“I’m back, Mom!” I used to shout as I ran up the short hill to my house after a day of playing outside. Twelve years later, standing in the same place, the memory comes back to me. When I got back, my mom would often give me something sweet to eat. Sweet potato cake, or fried bread with cinnamon sugar, or tofu mochi with kinako powder. For a long time, I’d forgotten the way the rooms connected in the house, the soft sweetness of those snacks, and the sound of my mother’s voice when she called me. But they rise now from the depths of my memory with a freshness that shocks me. I can almost see our two-story house as it was back then. And in that house—
“I’m back, Mom,” I say quietly, pushing the memories aside. I open the little door in the rusted gate with both hands and step onto the lot where our house once stood.
The ruins are buried in weeds. Only the low concrete foundation remains, covered now by brightly colored plants. My house isn’t the only one—the whole area is the same. Where rows of houses once stood, only a field of ruins remains. The little grove of trees that should be here is gone, and there’s nothing but wasteland as far as the eye can see. Everything that used to be here was washed away by the tsunami twelve years ago. A seawall looks down on the wasteland from maybe two hundred meters away. The sinking sun tints everything pink.
When I was four years old, there was a big earthquake. A really, really big one. Big enough to shake the whole eastern half of Japan.
When the earthquake hit, I was at nursery school, and my mom was at the hospital where she worked. I evacuated with the nursery-school teachers to an elementary school nearby, and I think I ended up staying there for about ten days. It was a long time ago, so I’ve forgotten most of what happened. I vaguely remember that it was really cold, the emergency siren was ringing all the time, and every day we ate rice balls, bread, and instant ramen. And I remember that even though the other children’s mothers and fathers came to pick them up, my mother didn’t come. I’d never been sad about not having a dad (my mom was the only parent I’d ever known), but there at the shelter, I envied the children with two parents from the bottom of my heart. I faintly remember being so lonely and afraid at the shelter that it became like a physical pain in my whole body.
One day, my mother’s younger sister, Tamaki, came from Kyushu to get me.
In the end, my mother never came back.
The little well in the back garden is still here.
Back then, the well had a wooden lid with a stone on top too heavy for a child to move. Sometimes I would drop little rocks through the gap under the lid, counting until I heard a splash. There was still water in the well then.
Now the well is filled with dirt, and weeds grow all around it.
I’m digging next to the well with a little rusty shovel. Tamaki is sitting on a strip of concrete foundation sticking out of the weeds, watching me silently. She must be curious, but I think she made up her mind not to ask questions, for my sake. The cats are sitting silently by her feet.
The tip of the shovel hits something hard.
“…Found it!” I blurt out. I widen the hole, plunge my hands into the dirt, and lift out the object.
It’s a cookie tin. In the middle of the lid, big, childish letters read, “Suzume’s Important Things.” I brush the dirt off, set it on the foundation, and open the lid. For a second, I think I smell fresh tatami mats—same as our house back then.
“A diary?” Tamaki asks, peering inside.
“Yes,” I answer. Inside the tin is my picture diary. There’s also a little egg-shaped video game that was popular back then, jewelry I made from beads, and my favorite origami. It all looks as new as if I put it there last week. The plastic is smooth and glossy, and the folded paper is as vivid as if it were just dyed. I used to carry these things around in my backpack everywhere I went. Before I went to Kyushu with Tamaki, I came here alone and buried them next to the well. The memory is vague but still with me. One of the reasons I’m here now is to look in my diary.
“I don’t remember that time very well…,” I say, flipping the pages. Clumsily written words and colorful pictures sprawl across the paper with such energy they seem ready to jump right out. March 3. I did the doll festival with Mom. March 4. I went to a karaoke contest with Mom. March 5. I went in the car with Mom to play at Aeon Mall.
“I got lost inside a door. I’m sure I would have written about it in my diary.”
I keep flipping.
March 9. Mom cut my hair, and now I’m cute.
March 10. Mom’s thirty-fourth birthday. Happy birthday, Mom! I want you to live until you’re one hundred!
Another page.
“—!”
March 11.
Black scribbles cover the whole page. The wax is as glossy as if I just colored it.
I remember all of it. My cold hands, gripping the black crayon. The unpleasant, bumpy feeling of the cardboard under the white paper as I colored it black. The feeling in my fingers and my emotions, ready to explode. It all comes back so vividly. Long-frozen memories melt and overflow. I can’t hold them back any longer.
I turn the next page. It’s all black.
The next page. All black.
The next page. Black.