Studying Abroad

You often say that I carry a kind of persistent longing, a deep-seated thought (“念”), toward people and things. Once such a thought takes root, it will one day blossom and bear fruit. When I was in secondary school, I once dreamed of going to Wudang Mountain to study martial arts. So, in the summer after university graduation, I truly did spend a month living on Wudang Mountain. As for the thought of studying abroad in Kyoto, it must have quietly taken root during my university years.

"A secondary school teacher doesn’t get time off in November, but I want to see all four seasons of Kyoto with you." I am grateful to both our families for indulging my stubbornness. And so, you came with me to Kyoto.

We walked together beneath the cherry blossoms drifting along the Philosopher’s Path, sharing sweets from Futaba. We lingered in the folding screen exhibitions during the Gion Festival, savoring summer citrus candy from Oimatsu. Amid the brilliant red maples at Kitano Tenmangu, we shared Nagogorō mochi. We chased the snowy splendor of Kinkaku-ji and brought back packs of senmaizuke from Mori, or perhaps it was Nishiri.

These were the seasons of Kyoto.

In spring, I liked to gaze at the fresh buds along the Philosopher’s Path and would always ask what we could admire that day. You, growing tired of the repeated question, always replied, "Cherry leaves." In summer, when we passed a small family-run diner and saw a poster for the Gozan Okuribi fire festival, I would turn it into a martial-art-like move, waving my arms and legs in dramatic gestures and suddenly jabbing you without warning. In autumn, as the wind swept golden ginkgo leaves across the ground, I would joke that street sweepers were making trouble for themselves and suggest letting the wheels of passing cars carry the leaves into the flowerbeds to become spring soil. But you would always respond with a serious explanation of why the road design made that impossible. In winter, on a rare afternoon when class ended early, you, who had insisted that very morning we needed to save money, would turn up at lunch grinning and ask, "Should we go to Washinrou?"

Each time we passed a quiet café popular with the elderly, I would argue that its Japanese name was "World Coffee" while you insisted it was "Kōhī no shiteiseki." Walking along the long stretch of Shirakawa-dori in the biting north wind, you would slip your hand into my coat pocket for warmth. After class, while I picked out fruit at the Life supermarket or bought meat at Merci Marugin, you would always ask to wander off on your own. Just before I reached the cashier, you would quietly place a box of sweets in my basket.

And so it went.

These were the seasons of Kyoto that belonged to the two of us.

You often ask me what it is that I love about you.
I love your sincerity and simplicity.
I love that you are willing to follow me in all my wild imaginings, no matter how far they go.
And I love the way you love me, just as you do.