Pilgrimage

That day, I brought Akutagawa-san a quiet offering—a small piece of yokan. It joined the cigarettes, the water, and the silence that always lingers.

That day, I visited the grave. There were already cigarettes—filtered but, to me, foreign—and a bottle of water sweating in the shade, so I brought yokan for Akutagawa-san.

I placed it in front of the headstone, letting two ants (and perhaps, later, a couple more of their friends) discover the sweet scent of red bean paste, possibly unfamiliar to them. The morning wind in Sugamo brushed through my hair, and the sun stirred behind a thin veil of clouds as if reluctant to rise.

The two ants were already performing their somber rites.

Akutagawa-san liked yokan. So I was told. It’s an offering for so many questions I asked too late.

Of course, he said nothing. The dead rarely make conversation, though they are excellent listeners.

I shouldn’t romanticize him.
But I owe him my silence, at least. And the silence is always loudest after sweetness.

Tomorrow I’ll burn the drafts again—
not in anger, just to see what remains in the smoke.

====

I would not know grief if not for Akutagawa-san. I would not know how to trim my sentences like bonsai if not for his madness. He taught me that even suffering can be made beautiful if you shape it with precision. That memory can be a knife or a mirror depending on how you hold it.

Thank you for showing me the door. I tried not to copy your footsteps. Just followed your voice in the dark.