You still recognised me as your son, even after so many years, and you gave the hospital my contact details, even though you couldn’t have known they were still the same. Fortunately (or unfortunately), I had never changed my cell phone number.
From up here in the park, I can see a sprinkling of lights being turned on in the houses below. The clock tower bell, tolling six o’clock, grounds me in the present.
The six chimes ringing out in our quiet house were always our cue for dinner, you know. We hardly spoke to each other at the dinner table; the endless prattle of the TV dominated every meal.
I never told you what I thought of your cooking. You had never lifted a finger in the kitchen before then, but as the dinners you made improved day by day, I used to secretly look forward to them.
In particular the curry and rice was something special. That was because it tasted just like the curry Mum used to make.
One day, the three of us walked along the Sunset Road, do you remember? We had gone to this park, and we were on our way home. The town spread out below us like a map, and beyond that was the ocean, glowing with the setting sun.
“Takaaki, what’ll we have for dinner?” Mum asked.
“Curry would be good.”
“You love curry, don’t you?”
I grinned. “Yeah. Today I’ll help you make it!”
“Alright, I’ll help too!” Dad volunteered.
“Dad, can you cook?”
“I’ll try anything once.”
We kept walking down the Sunset Road, all three of us laughing. It’s an unremarkable family scene, but for me it’s an indelible memory.
On the day of your discharge—even your memory of me is foggy.
“Thank you very much.” Your choice of words gives the impression that I am a care worker come to pick you up.
With some hesitation, I exert myself to call you Dad. “Dad, let’s go.”
“Oh, okay.”
Despite its hilly terrain and the salty air that causes damage to buildings, the small town is a good place to live, with convenient shops, schools and public services centred around the Sunset Road.
It’s a great town, I think as I walk beside you down that well-known road toward the house I grew up in. I could have taken the car, but I thought it would be good for us to walk back.
You clear your throat. “It’s turned cooler. Almost cold.”
“It’s milder in the daytime, I guess. Sorry, I had to work, that’s why I had to pick you up so late.”
“So, where are we headed?”
“The same house you’ve always lived in.”
“Ah, yes, okay.”
