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EVERGREEN

It has been, I believe, seventeen years since I last stepped inside this house. Within these walls, where traces of a past life still linger, the soft light of the late morning filtered through the windows. Following the passing of my uncle, I found myself returning to my hometown after a long absence. The magnificent pine tree that once flourished in deep azure at the entrance was gone; I was told it had succumbed to a bark beetle infestation years ago, leaving behind only a solitary, desolate stump. From the age of nine until I left for Tokyo at eighteen, this house of my grandfather was my home. It is a place woven with memories of childhood by the sea—the sandy beach where I often played, the fallen camphor tree, and the fields and streets I once ran through with innocent abandon. Over the years, much has changed and much has been lost, yet the house itself remains, standing with a quiet, dignified resolve.

After visiting the family grave, I wandered down to the shore. The sea, which lived in my memory as a place of rough, towering waves where swimming was unthinkable, was uncharacteristically calm. Perhaps due to a change in currents, it has recently become a secluded spot known among surfers. Along the quay of the refurbished fishing port, people now sit in peaceful rows, enjoying a day of fishing. The windbreak forest that once lined the coast like a symbolic boundary of daily life has thinned, replaced by newly constructed seawalls that have significantly altered the landscape. The scenery that once seemed eternal to my young eyes has been reshaped by the inexorable swell of time. The sea of my hometown seemed to quietly remind me that life is filled with unavoidable events and realities we must simply learn to accept.

A few days later, I reunited with childhood friends, and we lost ourselves in stories of the past. As we parted, my friend A gave me lemons from his garden as a gift. They were a pale yellow, rounded variety, and just as he promised they would be perfect for a highball, they possessed a mild acidity and a gentle finish. There are moments when the refreshing scent of citrus softly bridges the chasm of many years, and when the void of lost time makes one realize the irreplaceable value of simple things. Even the withered pine before the house speaks to me in silence, its absence a testament to the weight of the passing years. Perhaps this is a cryptic message from my eccentric grandfather, or perhaps from my ancestors: "The things that truly never fade are always found in places unseen."

Mitsumasa KADOTA  (December 2025)