This morning (September 9, Japan time) at six thirty my father passed away. He had been bed-ridden for seven years and it was no surprise. Yet it came as a surprise. He was 85.
Having been born in the southern island of Kyushu, especially with his native village named "Big Wave," he could have loved the sea. He did love the sea, I beileve, but not to the extent to jump in and take a dip whenever he had a chance to do so. When we went to Waikiki together exactly twenty years ago, he didn't even change into his swimming shorts. But he enjoyed watching the waves.
During those seven years, he could not respond to others. He was awake, he was asleep, but no, there was no sign that he recognized us around. Even his grandchildren, who were all his purest joy. Or he simply didn't have the command of facial and verbal expressions. My mother took care of him almost single-handedly during all these years. She is now 78.
Yet I like to imagine my father, in his involuntary half-sleep, dreaming of his boyhood days on the warm western coast of Southern Kyushu. One goes out a hundred meters off the beach and "faire la planche," as Albert Camus once wrote. All you see is the blue of the sky. All you hear is the wave and your own heartbeat. You are alone. You become one with the elements.
What else could there be, if such wasn't our practical, cheap, absolutely happy nirvana?
