Sunset Road (after the song ‘Kono Michi (This Road)’, lyrics by Hakushu Kitahara, 1926)
by Uda Tamaki, translated by Sharni Wilson
When I was a boy, my mother left the family home, unable to cope with my father’s drinking and gambling anymore. After she walked out on us, I stayed with my father, whom I bitterly resented; when I moved out at age 18, I had still never had a real conversation with him. Ten years have passed since then. I only saw him again because the hospital that admitted him contacted me.
In the panorama before me, the aquamarine shades of sea and the crystal blue of sky are dulled to monochrome. With you on my mind, I stare at the view without taking it in.
I felt no pleasure or excitement in seeing you for the first time in a decade; the only emotions that welled up were grief and abiding regret.
It began with an unexpected call.
—The doctor would like to meet with you to discuss your father’s condition. Can you come to the hospital?
For the first time in years, I was forced to realise that I am still your son.
I used to hate you so much I wished you would die, but in the consulting room, as I faced the doctor, waiting to hear what they were going to say, my heart hammered against my ribs. Summoning next-of-kin to the hospital means serious illness.
The doctor was polite, but I felt uncomfortable at the repeated references to “your father”, and I wasn’t able to think about your prognosis until I sat down on this park bench at the top of Eventide Hill.
“The stroke was detected early, and he doesn’t have any lingering paralysis, but he is showing signs of generalised cognitive impairment. Your father is only fifty-nine years old, so we need to consider the possibility of early-onset dementia.”
I’m positive that’s what the doctor told me in the consulting room. The doctor explained that it would be best for you to go back to the home you’re used to living in after being discharged, and went on to explain the risks of you living alone in some detail, since I didn’t know much about dementia.
“After your father is discharged, if you’re able to move in with him．．．?” The doctor glanced at my face and went on, “I guess that’s not on the table.” I must have grimaced.
If I did move in with you, it wouldn’t make much difference to my commute. Actually, if my wife and I could stop paying rent, it would be a great help with a child on the way. But it’s been ten years since I graduated from high school and distanced myself. I really can’t imagine living with you now.
We share a painful past, which may soon fade from your memory but is etched into mine.
