Samuel Teoh

Streets of Japan

1

Walk down the streets of Japan, past the glowing digital billboards, past the swarming intersections, into the winding streets of Kita City, among its tumbling houses. You will see an old woman.

She walks down the green pedestrian walkway along the side of the narrow road, her cane clicking against the concrete. Yellow and green box houses stand in wavy columns on both sides as she walks past. An outskirt wind breezes by, showering cherry blossoms across the road and pulling a strand of the old woman’s graying hair from her loose bun.

“Katie!”

The old woman turns and watches as a girl – Katie – and a boy streak past, pigtails and lunchboxes flying behind them. They chase each other down the road, a whirlwind of blue coats and black randoseru, filling the street with their laughter. The girl stumbles, pulling the boy with her, and they fall in a heap.

Stray strands of black hair stick to Katie’s forehead, shining with sweat. Her pudgy cheeks flush with heat and glee. She leans against the boy as they pant for breath, heaving as one. Katie’s brown eyes brighten as she sees their mothers hurry around the corner. They laugh with relief when they find their children sitting back-to-back in the middle of the road.

“Mama!” Katie pulls herself to her feet and stumbles towards her mother, pulling the straps of her randoseru over her shoulders. The four fall into a laughter-filled, lighthearted repartee as they walk toward the train station and the old woman turns away, smiling.

She saves the picture in her mind, of the girl and the boy leaning against each other, sitting in the middle of the street among the falling cherry blossoms, surrounded by yellow and blue houses. As their laughter fades away, the old woman wonders if perhaps what composes her heart is not atriums and ventricles but the people she loves.

2

If you walk down the streets of Japan, past the bright, underground shops, into the bustling train stations, onto one of the orange and yellow trains, sitting among the purple seats along the walls, you will find an old woman.

She sits still, her hands folded across her lap. The doors beep closed and the train leaves the station, at first slowly and quietly, then whirring and clicking over the train tracks as the rolling hills and cherry blossoms blur into green and yellow, green and yellow.

“The next station is Ofuna. Ofuna. JO9. The doors on the left side open.” The automated voice, muffled and crackling, sounds on the speakers above. The train slows to a stop at the station and the old woman watches columns of people waiting to board slip by. With a rhythmic beeping, the doors open.

The old woman watches as a group of students rush onto the train seconds before the doors close. They wear blue-buttoned suits and shined shoes, with black briefcases and long, ragged haircuts.

A girl breezes into the train, holding hands with a boy, her hair dyed light brown, her eyes bright.

They enter the train, laughing and gasping for air. The train whirs along, clicking over the train tracks. There is a bang as an adjacent train bursts past and the roar of the train’s wheels echo against the tunnel walls. The boy and the girl stand in the corner, leaning against the walls. He whispers something into her ear and she laughs, her laughter filling the train with a joyous sound, accompanying the electronic whirring and the hum of passengers murmuring.

The old woman stands when it is her stop, joining the flow of the crowd moving up the stairs, leaving the train behind, saving the picture of the girl and the boy in her mind, leaning against each other, laughing and smiling, as the humming of the train and the onboard automated announcements fade away.

3

If you walk down the streets of Japan, past the towering skyscrapers, past the thronging streets, into one of the yellow, faded restaurants along the side of an alley, you will find an old woman.

She sits along a pub table, staring at a wall where the faces of beautiful women and beer avertissements peeling from the wood stare back at her. Above, the neon lights of television screens and the mellow glow from hanging paper lanterns illuminates her skin. A blend of musical beats and unintelligible Japanese calls creates both a cacophony and symphony in the old woman’s ears.

A woman sits on the far end of the pub table, slumped against the wall. She wears a black kimono and her hair, streaked with blonde highlights, is tied back into a bun. Shoulders shaking, the woman collapses against the wall and, if the old woman looked closer, she would see tears streaming from the woman’s eyes, shining on her cheeks. But she does not need to look closer because she already knows.

The old woman turns away and leaves the restaurant, the calls of “arigato-gozeimas” and the pounding music fading behind her. She does not need to save a picture in her mind because she remembers it all too well. A picture of a woman leaning against a wall because the person she leaned on is no longer there.

4

If you walk down the streets of Japan, past the rural countryside with rolling houses, past the train station with whirring trains, past the lonely restaurants with neon lights, up several dozen flights of stone steps, onto a mountain overlooking the sea, you will find an old woman.

She stands there, her graying hair a tangle in the wind, her hands wrapped together tightly, her cheeks wet with salty tears, her eyes staring over the sea. And if you ask her if she is okay, she will tell you that there is no greater hurt than to live in a world with a hole in your heart.

Samuel Teoh is a homeschooled high school sophomore living in Taiwan. He loves to drink bubble tea, listen to K-pop, and read/write stories in his free time.