In the second grade of elementary school my sister decided to become a pianist. Although studying music professionally is probably still difficult in the countryside, it was even more so back then, and she needed to go to the city from time to time. As part of this, my sister and mother started regularly going to summer courses organized by a famous private university in Tokyo starting in her late elementary school years, and my father and I were inevitably left at home during those times. Washing clothes and eating meals were no problem because our house in Isahaya was a two-family home, with my grandparents living in the building next door. Besides, being able to spend a few days without my mother was like a gift to me, and I don't remember having much trouble.
In the summer of fourth grade, on a day that we dropped them off at the airport for Tokyo, my father took me to a sushi restaurant nearby. It was my first time visiting one. There was no such thing as conveyor belt sushi back then, so we sat at the counter together. I ate my sushi in silence next to my father, who continued to drink. Looking back, I remember the sound of the TV was playing quietly, and it must have been a very affordable sushi restaurant. But for a child, the counter was uncomfortable, and I wanted to leave.
I was released from the sushi restaurant after my father finally finished his dinner, but then it was awkward walking home with my him because he didn't say anything. For some reason, the dark road and the scenery of the bamboo forest at that time are forever imprinted in my memory like a cut-out picture. Did my father take pity on me that time? Or did he just want to eat sushi? Sometimes I remember that scenery and tantalizing atmosphere and relish in it.