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EVERGREEN

It had been, I believe, seventeen years since I last stepped inside this house. The interior, where traces of life from those days still lingered here and there, was bathed in the soft, late-morning light streaming 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 had once flourished so vibrantly at the entrance was gone. I saw that only its stump remained, standing there like a lonely remnant; I was told that it had withered a few years ago, fallen victim to a bark beetle infestation. From the age of nine until I left for Tokyo at eighteen, I spent my formative years in this house belonging to my grandfather. It was a place by the sea, steeped in childhood memories: the sandy beach where I often played, the fallen camphor tree, and the fields and streets I once roamed so innocently. Over the years, many things had naturally changed or vanished, yet the house itself remained, standing stately and dignified.

After visiting the family grave, I wandered down to the shore to find the sea unusually calm. In my memory, the waves were always great, crashing swells that made swimming unthinkable for a child. Yet, perhaps due to a shift in the ocean currents, I learned it has recently become a "hidden gem" of a surfing spot. Along the quay of the well-maintained fishing port, people were peacefully enjoying their fishing. The windbreak forests that once lined the coast—a symbol separating the mundane from the sea—had grown sparse, replaced by newly constructed embankments that gave the landscape a vastly different impression. The scenery that seemed eternal to my younger self had been reshaped by the inevitable tides of time. The sea of my hometown seemed to quietly remind me once more that life is full of such irresistible changes and realities—happenings we cannot avoid and truths we must learn to accept.

A few days later, I was able to reunite with childhood friends, and we let the flowers of old stories bloom. As we parted, my friend A-kun gave me lemons from his garden as a gift. They were a pale yellow, rounded variety; as he promised they would be perfect for a highball, they were mild in acidity and went down with a gentle smoothness. There are times when a refreshing citrus scent can softly bridge the gap of long years, or when a void of time makes us realize the irreplaceability of the most trivial things. The withered pine in front of the house also speaks to me in silence of the density of time passed, like a quiet ritual of passage. Perhaps it is a roundabout message from my eccentric grandfather, or from my ancestors: "The things that truly never fade are always to be found in places unseen."

Mitsumasa KADOTA  (December 2025)