A Ripple Through Life

The Quake [03/11/2011]

The windows were going to pop out of the car’s frame. The shaking caused them to swell in and out with each quake as if the vehicle were breathing, hyperventilating, to the point where the strain on the glass was almost visible. Leaves hailed down and one particularly large branch crashed into the middle of the street, pulling my eyes away from the car. My mother clenched my hand. 

It’s going to stop soon. 

Then we were silent. The earth continued to purge, groaning after each hard shiver of the ground until it too was silent. As if they were the toys that come to life in stories, the trees, cars, and earth stopped as immediately as they started, in fear of getting caught moving. The hand holding mine started pulling and I looked up. 

C’mon, before the aftershocks start. 

Yanked around the corner, up the street, and into the house. We started searching for details, for anything out of place. I heard laughter and turned to see my mother pointing at a lamp. It had fallen perfectly inside a trash can filled with tissues and paper, carefully preserving the stained glass lampshade without a single crack. She then grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on the news while taking me to the stairwell and seating me on the first step, far away from any windows or furniture. 

Don’t move, I have to check upstairs. 

I started to cry, begging her to not go but she told me she had to and headed up the steps. Footage of the earthquake played on the television: buildings swaying, trees crashing, office cubicles collapsing. Then the screen changed. Bright red characters I couldn’t read and a newscaster frantically speaking in a tone I’d never heard come from one. The frame switched to live footage from a camera facing a street. An alarm blared from every street lamp as water swept away houses, cars, people.  

Thudding from behind me, my mother emerged with her phone glued to her ear. Dialling, re-dialling, calling over and over to try and reach my father, brother, grandmother, anyone. 

She paused for a second seeing the screen.

Don’t worry, we’re okay. That’s in Tohoku.

She sat down next to me and hugged me with one arm, continuing to dial with the other, all while staring at the television. Her eyes unblinking, holding an expression I couldn’t quite read. 

Aftershock #1 [03/11/2011]

I’d gotten a diary that day. Pink and sparkly with a fairy on the cover. Sitting with my mother at the dining room table, I started to write, determined to have perfect penmanship; the day’s events were nearly forgotten in my mind. My father had just managed to get home after being caught in hours of traffic with everyone trying to leave their offices while the subways were still shut down. 

What should we do, Phil? 

I don’t know. We could go to my parents?

All the way overseas? I’m not sure I want to go there. 

I mean, what else can we do? We don’t know how bad the radiation is. We need to go somewhere further, at least.  

We should leave tonight then, before traffic gets even worse in the morning. 

Yeah, we should. We can decide about my parents after we get further down south. 

Okay. Sakura? 

I looked up. 

Can you go pick out some of your clothes and put them in your backpack? We’re going on a trip.

Okay!

Aftershock #2 [07/24/2011]

The backseat of the car smelled like new leather. Sitting between my mother and brother with my father and the real estate agent taking up the front, I marvelled at the trees outside. I’d never seen this much nature before in Tokyo, and now this was our new home. 

It’s so green! I can’t believe it’s so green here!

My mother also stared outside, except she was silent. When I turned to face her, she still didn’t say anything, aloofly squeezing my hand in response. 

The real estate agent laughed from the front seat.

Yes, it is really green. Those are evergreen trees, that’s what the state is known for. 

Aftershock #3 [08/26/2021]

It had been ten years since I’d seen the velvet blue patterned school bus seats but they were exactly as I’d remembered. I sat in the row second from the back, setting my coat down against the seat to use as a pillow. 

Hey!

I looked up and a boy was standing over my seat. 

Hi.

You used to go here right? 

Yeah, I did. It’s been a long time though. 

Y’know I’m pretty sure we used to ride the same bus. 

He dropped his things down in the row behind mine and kept talking through the gap between the seats. For the first time in a while since being back in Japan, I was at ease. Something felt familiar, the conversation flowed easily, like I was back with an old friend. And even though I’d barely known it, I was. 

Aftershock #4 [07/08/2022]

We paused in front of the Family Mart convenience store. The sun was just starting to set so the employees lit up the green and blue sign adorning the awning. 

This used to be our bus stop. 

He remembers better than I do, because this was the bus he’d ridden for years after I’d left. I shook my phone, trying to figure out the direction to my old house, swivelling the device till I was pointed the right direction. 

Okay, this way. 

He took my hand in his and we crossed the street, up and down the hill and a turn to the left. I recognised this street. The trees still surrounded the pavement on either side, but the branches were thinner than I remembered. The old car was gone and the parking lot sat empty. Rounding the corner to where the house sits on the road that used to never be this narrow. White stucco walls and a big window faced us. The curtains were closed, so we couldn’t see inside, but I still pointed out little details to him from what I remembered. 

It’s a nice place.  

Yeah, it was. 

I leaned over, wrapping my arms around him and he looked down with a soft smile. 

I’m glad you came back.

Me too.