Etsuko Yasunaga experiences the joy of reunion with loved ones and completes a special pilgrimage. By Etsuko Yasunaga
FOR THE first time in six years I landed in Japan at the end of May. Our previously planned Japan trip was in May 2020, exactly three years ago but Covid stopped that happening. The one before that was in the cherry blossom season in April 2017. My mother and sister made an effort to come to see us in Tokyo. In retrospect I was glad we caught up then, even briefly. Ever since I moved to Australia I continued to return to see my family every two to three years. I want to see them frequently but it’s a tolerable absence. Not seeing my family for six years was way too long. When I landed at Narita airport I felt almost giddy with relief.
FOR THE first time in six years I landed in Japan at the end of May. Our previously planned Japan trip was in May 2020, exactly three years ago but Covid stopped that happening. The one before that was in the cherry blossom season in April 2017. My mother and sister made an effort to come to see us in Tokyo. In retrospect I was glad we caught up then, even briefly. Ever since I moved to Australia I continued to return to see my family every two to three years. I want to see them frequently but it’s a tolerable absence. Not seeing my family for six years was way too long. When I landed at Narita airport I felt almost giddy with relief.
In Tokyo we had a joyous lunch with Kenji and his partner Haruka. Kenji is a younger brother of my late nephew Hiroshi and the only son my sister has now. He was 18 when his beloved brother passed away suddenly. In fact Kenji was the person who had to decide to turn the life support off as Hiroshi’s close family member. I often wondered about the heavy weight he carried ever since, however without knowing the truth.
During our meeting, one thing became quite clear. Kenji doesn’t have many memories of his childhood. Whenever I prompted some event involving him from the past, his response was often “No, I don’t remember that”. Or “I can’t recall”. It dawned on me that to protect himself Kenji might have suppressed his memories. All his childhood memories were of course entwined with Hiroshi and it’s quite possible that carrying them was too painful for him. When I realised that, all the disappointments and hurts caused by not being able to become closer to him vanished completely. Instead my heart was filled with empathy towards Kenji who also suffered enormously.
My sister told me later that she recently found a photograph of Kenji on Hiroshi’s funeral day, taken anonymously. It captured the moment of him looking into big brother’s peaceful face at the edge of the coffin, big tears rolling down his chubby cheeks. Amongst family we all thought he was the strong one who soldiered on for long time. Probably that wasn’t the case. In grief everyone suffers differently and there is no right or wrong way to endure pain. I was utterly grateful for the opportunity to rekindle our relationship.
Spending a rich four days with my mother and sister in Tsuruoka was surreal. We stayed in a few hot spring ryokans (Japanese-style inns) and tasted the most extravagant kaiseki cuisine. Onsen hot springs are a wonderful way to rejuvenate and relax any time of the day. Many Japanese people are fond of asa-yu, morning hot springs. At the end of the day after a long walk, to unwind and soak in the soothing mineral-rich water is very special and very Japanese. I lost count of how many times I soaked my body during our stay in Tsuruoka. One particular occasion I was on my own in the open-air bath amongst a verdant rice field at night. The crescent moon was shining above me and I could hear the croaks of frogs in the muddy water nearby. At that moment I didn’t need or desire anything in the world. Absolute contentment filled as I immerse my body in the soft warm water of Japan.
During our meeting, one thing became quite clear. Kenji doesn’t have many memories of his childhood. Whenever I prompted some event involving him from the past, his response was often “No, I don’t remember that”. Or “I can’t recall”. It dawned on me that to protect himself Kenji might have suppressed his memories. All his childhood memories were of course entwined with Hiroshi and it’s quite possible that carrying them was too painful for him. When I realised that, all the disappointments and hurts caused by not being able to become closer to him vanished completely. Instead my heart was filled with empathy towards Kenji who also suffered enormously.
My sister told me later that she recently found a photograph of Kenji on Hiroshi’s funeral day, taken anonymously. It captured the moment of him looking into big brother’s peaceful face at the edge of the coffin, big tears rolling down his chubby cheeks. Amongst family we all thought he was the strong one who soldiered on for long time. Probably that wasn’t the case. In grief everyone suffers differently and there is no right or wrong way to endure pain. I was utterly grateful for the opportunity to rekindle our relationship.
Spending a rich four days with my mother and sister in Tsuruoka was surreal. We stayed in a few hot spring ryokans (Japanese-style inns) and tasted the most extravagant kaiseki cuisine. Onsen hot springs are a wonderful way to rejuvenate and relax any time of the day. Many Japanese people are fond of asa-yu, morning hot springs. At the end of the day after a long walk, to unwind and soak in the soothing mineral-rich water is very special and very Japanese. I lost count of how many times I soaked my body during our stay in Tsuruoka. One particular occasion I was on my own in the open-air bath amongst a verdant rice field at night. The crescent moon was shining above me and I could hear the croaks of frogs in the muddy water nearby. At that moment I didn’t need or desire anything in the world. Absolute contentment filled as I immerse my body in the soft warm water of Japan.
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Those experiences were memorable, but it’s nothing compared to be in the same space with my mother and sister after so many years of not seeing one another. I simply took time to focus solely on the precious present moments we shared. We didn’t need to do anything notable but sharing the time and space was special enough. Obviously my mother had aged a lot and become quite frail. According to my sister, my mother encouraged herself to go out and walk more so that when we finally meet she could keep up with us at least. I will never forget the tenderness I felt when I supported her elbow as she walked slowly.
There was another important reason I went back to Japan. I wanted to visit Hiroshi’s accident site, the electricity pole where he was electrocuted. I couldn’t attend his funeral due to the distance and time required. I wrote about him a lot and he was still often in my thoughts, but I felt a sense of incompleteness. When I asked my sister whether it was possible to visit the site in between moving to the next accommodation, she was rather surprised simply because she wasn’t expecting it. Then she realised it was quite important to me, and was almost thankful that I suggested it. I bought a little bouquet of flowers on the way and my sister drove to the site where she still visits at least once a year on his anniversary. She told me there were always flowers on 22nd of February even after so many years. My sister pointed out the electricity pole - not that tall, just a mundane, ordinary one. Oh how many times I tried to imagine the place of the accident but simply I couldn’t. Now I have a clear image. My sister and my mother stayed inside the parked car while Rob and I crossed the busy traffic to reach to the site. I laid the flowers at the base of the pole and bowed my head. I felt Hiroshi was above me, bit surprised. “Aunty Et, you didn’t need to do that.” I replied “I needed to do this”. He understood. The communion was very brief but I felt a deep connection with Hiroshi’s soul there and then. Now I have a proper closure.
Nowadays my sister is thriving, working in the hospitality industry, enjoying the company of others, both colleagues and customers. It’s so hard to believe that in her grieving, she once wanted to be invisible and to stay hidden, not wanting to interact with other people. I’m grateful that she looks after my mother tenderly. My sister said to me “I have to make sure I’m the one who remains after my mother passes. I can’t let it happen to her because it was too painful when it happened to me.”
I was reassured by the calm way she said it. The fatal day when she lost her beloved son no longer defines her. Instead, the grief and suffering helped her to metamorphose into such a compassionate human being and I am appreciative of life’s ebbs and flows and where we are now in our lives.
There was another important reason I went back to Japan. I wanted to visit Hiroshi’s accident site, the electricity pole where he was electrocuted. I couldn’t attend his funeral due to the distance and time required. I wrote about him a lot and he was still often in my thoughts, but I felt a sense of incompleteness. When I asked my sister whether it was possible to visit the site in between moving to the next accommodation, she was rather surprised simply because she wasn’t expecting it. Then she realised it was quite important to me, and was almost thankful that I suggested it. I bought a little bouquet of flowers on the way and my sister drove to the site where she still visits at least once a year on his anniversary. She told me there were always flowers on 22nd of February even after so many years. My sister pointed out the electricity pole - not that tall, just a mundane, ordinary one. Oh how many times I tried to imagine the place of the accident but simply I couldn’t. Now I have a clear image. My sister and my mother stayed inside the parked car while Rob and I crossed the busy traffic to reach to the site. I laid the flowers at the base of the pole and bowed my head. I felt Hiroshi was above me, bit surprised. “Aunty Et, you didn’t need to do that.” I replied “I needed to do this”. He understood. The communion was very brief but I felt a deep connection with Hiroshi’s soul there and then. Now I have a proper closure.
Nowadays my sister is thriving, working in the hospitality industry, enjoying the company of others, both colleagues and customers. It’s so hard to believe that in her grieving, she once wanted to be invisible and to stay hidden, not wanting to interact with other people. I’m grateful that she looks after my mother tenderly. My sister said to me “I have to make sure I’m the one who remains after my mother passes. I can’t let it happen to her because it was too painful when it happened to me.”
I was reassured by the calm way she said it. The fatal day when she lost her beloved son no longer defines her. Instead, the grief and suffering helped her to metamorphose into such a compassionate human being and I am appreciative of life’s ebbs and flows and where we are now in our lives.
