Sundays with Yoko

Yoko's husband, Joe, died in August 1997. Yoko told me that in Japan, people are more likely to die when it's very hot or very cold.

I don't know how to start to tell you about Yoko, but I will tell you that we met on a very rainy Tokyo morning in September 2019, when she was 84 and I was 21. I have been to her house every week since then. We drink coffee, sometimes tea, and speak in English and Japanese. I stay for about two hours.

Although I have known Yoko Sensei for almost two years and spent a great deal of time in her company, I cannot say that I truly understand her. I don't think I see this as a problem. The facts are as follows: She is 148cm tall, her apartment is spotlessly clean, all dark woods and natural light. She speaks English well with an American accent. I know that she studies English every morning, drinks black coffee (her apartment also smells like coffee) and she keeps drafts of every letter she has ever sent to all of her friends around the world, of which she has many. She follows international tennis and keeps detailed notes on players' progress in tournaments. Every evening, before dinner, she goes for a walk alone. She likes to drink a single beer every night with dinner, but cannot bear to drink a second. She types notes and Japanese exercises for our classes on a type-writer, although I've never seen the typewriter itself.

She is serious and sometimes stern with me, she often criticises my Japanese or in summer, when I forget to pack socks to wear inside her apartment, she moans at me for the rest of the afternoon.

I would like to begin to document my conversations with Yoko for reasons I cannot explain well. I can only say that my relationship with her feels as though it is the most important relationship I will ever have with anyone.