Haibun
Asura
Our hearts are one
in worrying about our father. He is lying on tatami mats between
his heavy futon... in the heat of Japanese summer. We are
speechless. He seems to have fallen asleep, although growling
and mumbling... haunted by malaria and nightmares ...
Coming home from the South Pacific, he found himself a new job.
There was no longer The Imperial Navy he had planned his life
on. Did he think like Scarlet O'Hara? He started a lumber
business in the post-war confusion.
Coming home after each hard day, he stroked our heads and
confirmed the shape-difference. Two little girls breathed in
fragrance from fresh sawdust.
Not just the shape of head, I didn't have much in common with my
realist sister. When we quarreled, the winner was always Mieko
whose infuriated face lives on in me as a beautified Asura.
a fig tree—
the west sun
reaches the tatami
Image of Asura
