It was warm almost hot as I watched the translucent Blue blades of the Panasonic fan swirl in the room. A small place with a very small sink and stove. Just one room with a low table in the center of the room, a futon stacked nicely against the wall. The room was quiet, just soft stirring sound of my girl friend cooking something on the tiny stove. It did not smell all that bad. Maybe I could eat it. I tripped over the radio and broke it last night. I think that is what happened, anyways the damn thing is broke. Laying back with a cold beer in my hand, my wanders to times past. Strangely I start to wonder.”Where am I? “What the hell am I doing?”
Terriko put the lid on the pot and picks a dress she is sewing on. She is nearsighted like me, she has to really stare as she makes small stitches in the dress., They is nothing to say. Just strangers in a strange land. She needs me and I need her. Not just as a bed mate but someone to make me believe that I am all right. I would like to ask her what she is thinking about but it would be a major hassle. Her English is poor and my Japanese is even worse. Funny how I have never had that problem before. Back home you could talk, express your feeling, what made you sad, what made you happy. It is different now. Even if I could express my self, the cultural differences would make such a conversation meaningless. I realize that is a fleeing moment , etched in time, never to be explained or understood except by those who have experienced it.
Quietly she get up, steps over to the stove, dips out some rice, puts some meat on top of it. Then she places a pair of Sticks across the top of the bowel. She smiles as she hands me the food. I say “Domo” and start to eat..........
Terriko put the lid on the pot and picks a dress she is sewing on. She is nearsighted like me, she has to really stare as she makes small stitches in the dress., They is nothing to say. Just strangers in a strange land. She needs me and I need her. Not just as a bed mate but someone to make me believe that I am all right. I would like to ask her what she is thinking about but it would be a major hassle. Her English is poor and my Japanese is even worse. Funny how I have never had that problem before. Back home you could talk, express your feeling, what made you sad, what made you happy. It is different now. Even if I could express my self, the cultural differences would make such a conversation meaningless. I realize that is a fleeing moment , etched in time, never to be explained or understood except by those who have experienced it.
Quietly she get up, steps over to the stove, dips out some rice, puts some meat on top of it. Then she places a pair of Sticks across the top of the bowel. She smiles as she hands me the food. I say “Domo” and start to eat..........