Work Text:
An autumn cicada
dies by the side
of its empty shell
- Basho, traditional haiku
On a hillside in an opening of the forest, a dark scar mars the ground. The dirt there tastes like heat and mourning, and the squirrels bury their acorns elsewhere.
Setsuko died on a Wednesday. Two days now have passed. The rice in the opened bag has made ten onigiri, and Setsuko has eaten none of them. Seita eats them grain by grain, chewing slowly, so that one onigiri lasts for five hours. The chicken eggs were eaten quickly, because eggs spoil. Each egg tasted like smoke, and the rancid bile-tint of guilt.
Seita is unprepared for the everyday weirdness of grief. He spends hours thinking that he will turn around and Setsuko will run through a doorway into view, laughing still. He avoids the grassy places, where insects live.
*
On a hillside in an opening of the forest, the bare dirt has settled to ashy grey. A storm has washed some of the dirt into the nearby grass, as though the bare spot is slowly bleeding itself wider. The grass is strong, though, and reaches upward toward the rain. When the storm passes, it stands a little taller for the water.
Setsuko died on a Wednesday. Two weeks now have passed. In an alley sheltered by two houses, a small shelter is growing. The houses form walls, and a box forms a roof. Seita does not leave the shelter, except to relieve himself. Through the walls of the right house, he can hear a radio. The American general has landed on Honshu island. In his first words, he promised food to the people. Seita thinks dully that American promises have always sounded like endings, first for his father, then his mother, then his sister. Perhaps this promise will sound like ending for him, too.
Seita is glad that Setsuko cannot see the shelter. It does not smell like comforting earth, and the ocean feels very far away.
*
On a hillside in an opening of the forest, the grass is encroaching once more on the barren place. The small patch of barren soil that remains is lighter now, and tastes less like fire. A snake has made a burrow in the new grass, and rests with its head facing the sky. It has no knowledge of Emperors or maps, but its belly is distended with the comfortable stretch of too much mouse.
Setsuko died on a Wednesday. A month now has passed. The bag of rice that was opened now covers a hole in the shelter's roof. Seita does not leave the shelter, even to relieve himself. The radio stopped broadcasting a little less than two weeks ago, after the Emperor signed away the honor of Japan. Seita's parents and Setsuko died before Japan became a shamed nation, and Seita wonders if his ancestors (those gone before, those who know death when we still guess at its shape) have yet turned their back on their wayward son, as legend claims they should. He dreams his parents walking away from him, even as he runs to catch up. Setsuko is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps her spirit deserted him before Japan gave up its honor, when he gave up his own and failed to make her live.
Seita sometimes sees fireflies in the alley outside his shelter, towards the street. He does not know if they are real or not. Sometimes he sees Setsuko there too, and she is not real. He knows because the shelter smells of rot and feces, and Setsuko has no place in such dismal surroundings. She belongs with deep soil, and salt water, and fresh air.
*
On a hillside in an opening of the forest, grass grows and insects buzz. The snow fell in winter, and melted in spring. It is the end of summer now, and the snake has returned. At first the empty burrow in the hillside was a suspicious place, full of indefinable danger. The snake investigated carefully, then settled in again, comforted by the earthen walls.
Seita died on a Friday. A year now has passed. In the city of Kobe, skeletal walls form the outlines of houses that will grow in the future. The ocean remains deep, and gives up none of its mysteries. On a beach near an abandoned bomb shelter, children sometimes report that the fireflies dance in strange formations.
A wizened old woman tells them that the fireflies are the souls of soldiers who died in the war. An older boy scoffs at the fairy tale, but the younger children sneak off to the beaches at summer's end, just before the fireflies disappear, and leave offerings of onigiri and fruits on the beach. The tide rises and falls, and in the morning, the offerings are always gone.
*
Fin