Friday, February 10, 2017

A Priceless Gift From Dad

I was fifteen when my father Nobukazu died of complications from diabetes at the age 52. Our family’s laments lasted long, and this loss was also a pivotal point for me from which I began to think of what I was meant to be.

Nobukazu was born into the family hotel business in Honbetsu, Hokkaido—the north-most and coldest area in Japan. In his teens, his mother passed away, which forced him to help his family by laboring. After graduating from college in Tokyo, he got a job as a salesperson at a construction firm, where he met my mother. It required seven years of patience for this couple to have their first and only child. It was December 31st of 1982 when I first saw the sun.

My father long suffered from serious health problems. His diabetes eroded his kidney, and, as a result, he was required to take a hemodialysis treatment three times a week after his grueling full-time work. Despite his obvious fatigue, I often complained that he hardly played with me or took us on a family trip. His only peace of mind was music; he collected vinyl records and cassette tapes of American folk singers, including his favorite Simon & Garfunkel.

I remember a humid, sweltering day in the summer of 1998, the year I started high school. I told my dad that I did not intend to go to college. I said, “I’m sick of rote learning. The school’s curriculum is nonsense!” I had studied music by my own and dreamed of being a composer.

“No, Yosuke! You definitely need to obtain a bachelor’s degree, at least! This will surely benefit you. Follow my words,” my father said, infuriated with my statement.

I rebelled, shouting “I am to be an artist. I’m not interested in being a boring, ordinary employee, someone like you!”

We never compromised. The conversation between us disappeared after that argument, which still adheres to my memory like sweat that never gets wiped off. I did not know that Father’s illness had worsened so acutely. Complications involved glaucoma and red rashes pervading his skin constantly irritated him.

In the November of the same year, Nobukazu was placed in a hospital due to persistent fevers. I saw him every other day after class. We exchanged some words. When he showed anguish, I held his hand. He smiled at me. His arms were connected to millions of ducts for the interminable intravenous lines. Over the window I saw a maidenhair tree, all of whose leaves had fallen, preparing for winter. On December 15th, I was jolted by a call from my mother. I rushed to the hospital, but a few minute after I arrived, my father’s heartbeat gently faded out.

I was in confusion for a while, but his Buddhist funeral taught me that this was an indubitable reality. A couple of days after Father’s death, I, attired in a new, uncomfortable black suit with a tie and prayer beads, headed to the hall with my mother. There were a lot of chores for preparation. “We are too busy to mourn for him,” grinned my mother. Her cell phone was relentlessly ringing while we had a meeting with the ceremony staff. After the meeting, they brought in the casket in which Nobukazu rested. My relatives gathered around it. I opened the casket, uncovered the cloth on his face, and let them see his placid countenance. “Beautiful… What a beautiful face!” my maternal aunt sobbed. He looked as if he was just sleeping, but his skin was as cold as windows in winter. Above his casket were a myriad of white chrysanthemums and lilies cuddling up to his smiling picture. A Buddhist priest burned incense, the dense smoke of which blurred Nobukazu’s postmortem name, Nikka—given by the priest for use in “the afterworld”— inscribed on the spirit tablet.

Father’s ceremony drew over six hundred visitors, including my teacher Mr. Sakai and my newly acquainted classmates. One of my classmates was too young to perform the ritual of burning incense properly. Everyone was unprepared for his premature death. On the following day, a golden hearse took my parents and me to the crematory. After his body was burned at 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit, we collected his remnants into a cinerary urn with chopsticks. His bones and ashes were buried in his grave as the first resident.

This event made me want to be independent. I started working at a video game company while I was in high school. I did not go to college. Instead, I continued my career as a software engineer in several industries. A few years later, my mother revealed two things about my father. “The day before his death,” she said, “he just said ‘Yosuke would be alright.’” He believed in my success whichever route I would choose. She also told me how he decided upon my name.
I am thankful for my father, who has been a guide for me even after his demise. If I could speak to him now, here are the words I wish to say:


Dear revered Dad,

How many winters have passed since you commenced a long, long journey? Since you were gone, I’ve discovered many things about you. I didn’t know you were liked and respected by hundreds of your colleagues. I didn’t know you were good at cooking and playing the guitar. I didn’t know you were always caring about me as a first priority. I was living in a bubble. Now I, as an adult, have come to understand how hard it is to put bread on the table, how exhausting a hemodialysis treatment you took was, how agonizing your endless pain was, and how much you dedicated yourself to others throughout your life. You and Mom are the best parents in the world! I’m so proud of being your son. I really want to be someone like you.

And I heard where my name, Yosuke, had come from. In the early morning on the day after my birth, you were walking along the Edo River full of jubilation. There you saw the first sunrise of the new year. Stunned by the sanctity of that scene, you spontaneously named me Yo—the sun in Japanese. I feel my name is a special gift bestowed by you.

I am now a student in the United States after having worked in Japan for years. Here, every day brings a new adventure. Sometimes I miss Mom, but we are alright. Wherever in the world we are, the sun rises every morning.

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