I never did finish writing about that last day in Nagasaki. Mostly because I wrote a beautiful post, and then the app on my phone decided that the trip wasn't worth writing about. It froze and I lost all of the data before I could publish it. The issue continued throughout the rest of the trip, rendering it impossible for me to write and post. I became frustrated and decided that never looking back on it would be the best option.
It was wrong of me to ignore it. It is worth writing about. The last hours of that one evening have become so vivid in my memory that I now find it difficult to recall the rest of the trip with much clarity.
After we left Etsuko-san, Fumiko-san drove me and Perry to the hotel to meet Kaho. Her parents would be joining us. I had never met Kaho's family before that night. I had never met any Japanese friend's parents. I wasn't sure what to expect. Would they interview me? Would they be short with me? Did they speak English? Were they going to judge me for not knowing Japanese? (I'm working on it!)
However, I found them to be oddly similar to my parents. For example: at one point in the evening, her dad, clearly an engineer of some sort, attempted to understand the mechanics of a stationary glass door by trying to casually move it forwards and backwards as he studied the hinges above. With a firmer grip, he then tried to move the door with a little more force.
We stood silently in the elevator waiting.
Realizing the door was not going to move without him most-likely breaking it off of the wall, he got on the elevator while his wife gave him a knowing look.
Although seemingly awkward for everyone involved, I immediately felt at ease. It was as if my parents were standing in front of me. I wanted to laugh at how such a small act could create feelings of reassurance and trust. But, I thought it would be rude and so I did my best to remain quiet.
Anyway, Kaho took us to Mount Inasa!! Her dad drove us all. I assumed their car, a minivan, would look like everything else in Japan: spotless and meticulously well kept. But when Kaho opened the door, it appeared surprisingly American. It seemed like a family used it regularly. It seemed like it contained a past that was scattered on the floor and on the seats.
As I considered that, I started to understand why Kaho seemed to flourish in the US. To her, it was both novel and vaguely familiar all at once. She found pieces of home throughout her time there and she was comforted by them.
In the van, Perry and I talked about our earlier failed attempt at finding Inasa. Kaho's parents spoke not one word of English that night, but they remained silent while we spoke to their daughter. Once we got to the end of the story, I heard her father chuckle. Then his wife laughed too. When we reached the end of the road, the entrance for Inasa's peak was in front of us, where literally dozens of taxis sat. They were dropping off and picking up people in a steady stream. Her dad pointed at them and we all laughed.
When we got out, we were immediately met with a cold wind. In general, cold wind merely functions as a reminder to me that I may one day freeze to death in an alley of Minneapolis. But, in the previous days of this trip, it was extremely hot and humid. I welcomed that air bravely. It was so refreshing that I wanted to inhale as much of it as my tiny lungs would allow. And my lungs were tiny; I couldn't contain enough of that breeze. The deeper I breathed, the more I wanted to feel it run through my body like cold water. It made me feel alive in a way I hadn't felt the entire two weeks we were in Japan.
And, although "the view" is supposed to be seen at night, it should be made clear that whoever thought that was beautiful definitely did not see it at sunset.
That evening, the unbearable heat of the day eased. The sky was cloudless and the sun was simultaneously blinding and soft. The shadows, cast down on to the city by the surrounding mountains, created a shade of blue that almost shimmered against the orange and brown of the rock. In those shadows, I could see the specks of light popping up where people walked and dined and talked and lived.
Facing the opposite direction, the ocean was equally breathtaking. The waning sun had just enough energy to spread its rays across the east like arms, reaching for the harbor and the ships, the water and the ripples, the mountains and the trees. It held everything in that glow.
We took pictures of it all, but they do not have the alluring periwinkle and silver shadows we saw that night. They didn't preserve the the pink and yellow ribbons of light floating in the sky.
That night, as Kaho and I stood side by side in silence looking out on the water, I learned from her that the magnificence of life is strongest when we can see past the immense world to the smallest aspects of existence. Our friendship became more than two people at the top of a mountain enjoying the sunset together. I wanted to hold her hand and call her family. I wanted to hug her and tell her I loved her. I wanted her to know that she had changed my life.
But then I realized all of that could seem weird and creepy. So I decided to remain next to Kaho in silence, hoping she knew how radiant it was to be standing next to her in that moment.
The sun ebbed into the mountains. At last, it gently released all that it held that day, leaving Nagasaki and the sea with the placid night.
And it was perfect.
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