Dear Love

“Dear Kento,

This year I have made myself a bento for the first time. It wasn’t as good as yours. But I liked it; the efforts were tasty enough.

It’s a bit warm. It didn’t rain too much this year. I can hear my neighbors complain as I write this letter. They are having melons. I wonder how they managed to find it. It was a bit of a rough year for melons. It’s so juicy and red. Maybe I’ll ask them for some.

My nieces and nephews like it here. It’s a bit of a hassle for my brothers to get here, especially with the passport. And this place is way in the country. My neighbors help a lot, though. Sujika-san told me that he’d always receive them at the airport in his van. Remember that old thing, with it’s bunged-up carburetor? He fixed it in the winter after he broke his toe. His wife was very angry. Oh, I have made a spelling mistake. 

Never mind. I will not strike it out.

With my tow of equally brown-skinned children, I still feel like I’m stuck out, but the people are nice. They were a bit suspicious, but when I told them I’m your wife, they couldn’t have welcomed me into their society sooner.

It’s strange. I got rejected everywhere in my life, even in my home country. But nothing made me feel at home more than a group of grannies telling me how to cook shiitake, or some of your neighboring uncles, who showed me how to chop wood in winter.

I guess this is where you get all of it.

I don’t speak with my brothers. Even now. But when I take their baby sons in my lap or teach their daughters the names of different flowers in my garden, they watch me quietly.

Thankfully, even now, we are aware of how the other person works, so we don’t need to speak a lot to each other. It’s a small mercy. We have burnt the bridges a long time ago.

My younger brother adopted a girl this year. His wife had some reservations, but he was insistent. She is from Manipur. Boudi stopped complaining as soon as he put the child in her lap. She’s really cute.

As for my older brother, he divorced his wife. She was cheating on him. She tried to take Ranu and Sourav away, but you know how he is. She didn’t get a single penny from him.

None of them told Baba and Ma about coming here. I guess they just don’t want the extra drama.

Sometimes I sit in my garden and my brothers join in. I smoke and they sit in different corners. Dada likes the flowers. Bhai likes the way the garden makes him feel when he smokes. We haven’t gotten to drink tea together yet.

It’s a bit awkward when the neighbors ask my brothers about me. They guess a bit, and the other times, they flat out admit they don’t know, which stings. I guess I wasn’t much to them beyond what they expected of me.

I can remember details about them they themselves have forgotten about.

Ranu really likes your hand-drawn pictures. Especially of the countryside. She thinks you draw the most beautiful flowers. When she first met you, remember how scared she was by the 186 centimeters you stood? Until she saw these pictures, she WOULD NOT believe me that you drew. She wishes to get drawn by you. I’m thinking of giving her some of the pictures. 

All of them will be leaving next Sunday. 

Before I forget, Ryuga is desperate for your guitar. He goes, “Onegai Obaasan, Onegai Obaasan, Onegai Obaasan…” every time I meet him. I’m thinking of getting him a new one. Yours is mine. I know it’s childish, but what’s mine is mine.

Some of my colleagues are trying to get me to come back. I don’t know what to do. I’m just starting my career as an author. Besides, I really hate corporate life. I guess I’ll make up my mind later.

I don’t know what else there is to write about. I have always been good at living on my own, you know. I don’t miss you too much. I like your place. It’s almost like the house I dreamt of building on my own. If you told the 21-year-old me that I would be living my dream life in my husband’s house, she would have scoffed loudly at your face. But I guess I was just desperate for some peace.

There is a forecast of heavy rain and landslides beyond the valley. The villagers have told me what to do if it happens when I am near it. Don’t worry, I won’t join you just yet.

I’m wrong. I do miss you. It’s not…it just doesn’t break me. Well, not anymore.

I miss listening to Sunsetz and leaning over to kiss you. I miss your tempura. I miss listening to you rant about your work, your colleagues, and your government. I miss seeing you walk on the dirt path behind our house. I miss seeing you read old mangas. I miss laughing at your inability to take a joke. I miss making love to you. I can have sex, but the thought of anyone touching me in your place is so unbearable.

In my dreams, I still see the sun on your face, lighting your dyed blonde hair. I still see you sitting in our garden, and tugging me into your lap. I still see myself complaining and you dragging me into yourself anyway. I still see the strength in your arms whenever you lifted something heavy. I still see the skill with which you did carpentry. I still see how you looked at me and I still feel the butterflies. Sometimes I lie down near the forest. It reminds me of you. I can almost pretend…

I miss, I miss, I miss you. That sounded like Darcy, didn’t it? It’s just how I feel.

Thank you for teaching me carpentry. Thank you for teaching me how to cook the food that you like. Thank you for knowing me and the place I come from. Thank you for learning my mother tongue. Your Rs were weird, but that’s okay. Thank you for making me fall in love with you. 

I hope you are at least peaceful. Don’t worry. I’ll live well and tell you all about it when I’m there.

Love, 

Your Min-min”

The letter lies untouched in an envelope, safe in the fingers of its writer, who is encrusted in mud and sludge. It’s intact, but not for long.  The clouds grumble in the sky, eager to let go of their heavy cargo.