Summer in Osaka was humid and hot even in the countryside, especially in the little town of Shinrai where I grew up with my two older brothers. When I graduated high school, I did some paid community work in my hometown before I moved to the town next to it, Manazuru, where I have since stayed. I moved because there was nobody left for me in Shinrai; my two brothers had moved to Tokyo separately when I was 16 and my parents were not there. Instead of letting my neighbors and familiars watch me become a single old man still carrying apple crates around town, I decided to tell them I was moving to Tokyo just like my brothers had.

 

Manazuru was a small town too, and only fifty miles away from Shinrai, but its population was growing and consisted of much younger and newer people, people who would not pay attention to an aging old man like myself. My life was peaceful and I liked that. Each day I would start off my mornings by walking through the streets unnoticed. Today when I was passing by Nezumi the local icecream parlor, I saw two young boys standing under the awning, both of the boys donned in summer uniforms and one of them carrying a navy shoulder bag. They were laughing loudly in a way that reminded me of a youth I once had myself.

 

I passed them before they had a chance to notice me. I had a routine to finish. On each of my walks, I would go to the same lone bench, one that couples probably went to on a date to gaze at the sunset. But it was morning now and I had the seat all to myself. I took off my leather pack and sat down, staring straight out into the Biwa lake and strangely enough, thinking of a piece of news that I had read months ago. I was so lost in suspended thought I had forgotten to do my weekly drawing.

 

Sometimes when I went to sit at the bench, I would take out a sketchpad, the only one I've ever owned. Besides the portrait of me on the first page, the rest of the pages were filled with the same scenery, the Biwa lake and the water ripples and the occasional foliage from the side or in the foreground. I drew the same thing each time because I was not an artist. It took many weeks for me to get the pencil drawing to look like what it was supposed to, and many more months to portray the mood as what it felt like to me. The lake would change with the seasons and the weather and it was always a new drawing every time. 

 

I was running out of pages though and soon the sketchbook would be finished, and I would not get a new one. It was good that I was drawing more rarely. I did not want the sketchbook to be complete. 

 

So that day at the bench, I walked home without taking my sketchpad out. I went through the rest of my day without much thought; every day was enjoyable monotony. And then I would get back to my small minka house at the edge of town and do my evening routine before going to sleep to the sound of grasshopper mating chirps. When I had gotten to my late forties, I realized that I stopped dreaming or just could not remember a single thing about them when I woke up. I did not remember dreams to be an amazing experience.

The next morning was the same as yesterday's. I passed Nezumi and a string of bakeries and couples holding hands and then finally I started up the road to the lone bench. As I drew closer, I realized it was occupied. Not by a young couple, but by the two highschool boys I had saw the other day. My heart began to feel heavy yet I could not take my eyes off of the two school boys, sitting on the bench together in silence, having only the lake in front of them to stare at.

Again, I walked away before either of them had the chance to notice me. There was no other place for me to go but home, back to my old minka house. It was when I got there that I realized there were tears in my eyes, tears that would not stop flowing down my cheeks and wetting my shirt. 

I sat down on the engawa porch and took out my sketchpad and pencil. I allowed myself a look at the first page where there was a portrait of my younger self in a gakuran, the happiest and warmest smile that I had ever had on my face. My resolution was made. I started finishing the last four pages of my sketchpad. My hand was shaky as I made the outline of a young bright-faced boy. The drawing was terrible but I continued, all the while tears were streaming down my face and my heart was pouring out my entire being. I drew Mimoto as I remembered him on every remaining page of the sketchbook. When the last stroke was made I collapsed onto the porch, unable to stop my feelings of longing and regret as my body convulsed with every sob. I did not know how I would be able to continue living like this. I could not stop being angry that I was not born into the 2000s, that Mimoto was not born with me into the 2000s too.

 

I suddenly could not help but hate the news that I had read about the pride parade in Sao Paulo earlier in June, could not help but hate that I was too old now to do anything.