1 Liter of Tears (Ichi Litre No Namida)

Chapter 6 : 19 Years Old [ "I May Not Last Much Longer . . ." III ]

Late Autumn

Suddenly I noticed the cicadas have stopped singing. They've passed the baton on to the bell crickets. It's getting chilly both in the morning and evening. I can't help feeling that my stamina and my energy are both deteriorating.

Is it all right for me to stay alive?

If you die, you won't leave anything behind.

Love-what a sad person I am relying only on that! Mom, is it really all right for an ugly person like me to be living in this world? Mom, I'm sure you can find something shining brightly in me. Teach me. Guide me.

Looking at the canna reeds

Blooming in the garden,

I miss you

Early this morning, I was woken up by the yelping of the puppies as they played with each other. The early morning sunlight was streaming in through the window. Lying in my futon, I watched them for a while. They've really grown up quickly. They were only yelping until recently, but now they can also growl like mature dogs. That could also be said about me . . .

I smiled a bitter smile when I thought that.

I want to go to a florist to buy a pink rose.

I want to go to a cake shop; I'll decide when I look through the window whether I want a cream puff or a shortcake.

I want to go to the liquor store; I'll say to the chunky middle-aged man with the reddish face, "Can I have a bottle of Akadama Honey Wine?" I want to give it to my brother.

My wish has come true: I was presented with a copy of Totto-chan written by Tetsuko Kuroyanagi. But leaving the enjoyment of that till later, I started on my kimekomi craft work. I have to cute the kimono cloth into several pieces of the same shape. Then I paste them on to a round wooden ball with glue. I can't use a pair of scissors well, and it's also difficult for me to fix the cloth with pins, so I only make slow progress. I'm really serious when I cut the cloth because I won't be able to complete it properly if I get the measurements wrong.

As I was about to go to sleep at night, I heard the door being knocked. (I remember a scene like this in a book written by Shinichi Hoshi.) As I said, "Come in!"m the door opened quietly and in came a young little girl . . .Yes, it was Rika.

"Aya, I have something to talk about" she said in an unusually serious manner. "Tomorrow I'm going to nursery school. I won't be able at home, so you'll have to be a good girl, all right? Don't fall over. We'll play together when I come home, all right?"

That made me cry.

I think you inwardly digest your mother's affection and it is changed into love towards other people.

When I gave peanuts to the birds, the are them happily. But as soon as I opened the wirte netting over the entrance to clean their cage, the birds suddenly flew out and disappeared. They could only fly away like that because they didn't know that they may not be able to live in the wild and that there are scary enemies out there. Please come back when you realize that . . .

Feeling sad, I wrote some letters to my teachers and friends.

"Please buy me a spiral-bound notebook like sketchbook," I asked Mom "I don't feel like writing my diary in an ordinary close-ruled notebook."

"What?" she replied. "Aren't you being a bit selfish saying you can only write your diary depending on your mood. It might be different story when your condition is bad, but right now you should think that you must write something anyway."

I learned something else from Mom's way of life. She was right. If she said, "I can't get into the mood for preparing dinner," I'd starve.

Rika visited me when I was lying down - -I was coming down with a cold. She sat beside my pillow and started drawing a picture of rabbits on the pillow cover using a maker pen - a big rabbit and a small rabbit standing next to each other. She also drew three or four circles between them. I think she intended them to be flowers.

"Aya," she said, "I thought you might be lonely sleeping alone during the night. So please make these your friends."

Her tenderness again made me cry.

I read an article in today's morning paper about a disabled person in an electric wheelchair who has done a correspondence course for twenty years so that he could acquire a clock repair qualification.

I don't develop anything. My body has stopped its emotional growth.

I wonder if there's any kind of job I could do? (My brother says there isn't, and I half agree with him.) But I don't think everything is impossible.

All I can do right now is write and do kimekomi craft work. Even if I can't have a job, I can at least help Mom by wiping the floor, folding up the washing, etc.

Today I was intending to make some more kimekomi quilt balls, but I ended up playing with my sister instead. During that time, Mom cleaned my room.

"Leaving the dirty stuff as it is - that's what animals do," she said.

I really appreciated what she did. All the hairs stuck in the carpet (over the tatami mats) had beautifully disappeared. But it became a bit too clean - I couldn't feel relaxed.

I wanted to know how Mom felt when she was cleaning my room. She had to spend half her day looking after her troublesome child . . .

"Poor Aya!" Said Ako.

"What's fun for you, Ako?" I asked.

"What's fun for you, Aya?" she replied.

"Nothing," I answered.

"Poor Aya!" she said.

Today I was training on the mezzanine floor. I practiced holding the rocking chair and letting go with both hands.

I wasn't very stable and I could only stand for about five minutes, but that's how I'm trying. Yet why can't I do it better?

My brother also said, "Poor Aya!" It was already dark outside and the bright TV screen was reflecting dimly white on his face.

I want to go somewhere spacious.

I don't like being cramped any more.

I feel so much pressure.

I can't go out because it's cold outside.

I keep thinking about death, so I'm scared.

I can't move . . . I'm beaten.

I want to live!

I can't move, I can't make money, I can't do anything useful to other people.

But I want to live.

I want to be understood . . .

Rika spread some jam thickly on a piece of bread. It dribbled onto the floor while she was eating. "What a waste!" I thought. But Mom just wiped out the jam, saying, "Too bad!" Where does this difference in attitude come from?

When I failed trying to stand up from the chair, I squashed the orange in my pocket. Feeling like Mom, I was able to think, "Too bad!"