Poets will tell you a great many things about time and how it relates to the fragility of life. Some will say that time that is lived in happiness passes most quickly, and that laughing days and joyful seasons become fond memories within the span of a butterfly’s heartbeat. Others will deny this claim and announce that those who savor life will be forever caught within the crystallization of every single instant and that time will stretch itself into an infinity for those who do not take for granted the happiness they have been given.
Perhaps the Japanese poet Sami Mansei said it most eloquently in AD 352. “Living in this world, to what shall I compare it? It is like a boat, rowing out at daybreak, leaving no trace behind.”
With eyes toward the horizon and disappearing ripples behind, Hajime and Tokio lived a great many years together. And while it cannot be said that every instant contained complete bliss, neither man nor wife could say that he or she had many regrets, if any, about the lives they had chosen.
They watched as their sons grew into fine young men, men who walked with pride and confidence, men who soon developed their own well-thought-out ideas of how the world should be and who set about remaking the land to fit those noble ideals. Tsutomu and Tsuyoshi married and much to Tokio’s delight and Hajime’s dismay, soon added their own children to the family. Tatsuo did not marry and instead, became a literature professor and went to work for Okita.
For their thirtieth anniversary, Okita Souji presented the Saitous with the painting he’d been working on for over twenty years. It depicted the couple standing together beside a frozen stream of water, the dark green of Tokio’s kimono and navy blue of Saitou’s uniform a stark contrast to the whirling snow. Jikiri teased Souji endlessly about how long it took him to complete the picture, saying that if he wanted to finish another before he died, he’d better get to work straightaway.
As for Okita, his school grew and grew. The new era marched on, and as the nineteenth century became the twentieth, more and more young women wished to become educated. Jikiri became his constant companion and assistant, supporting the lofty goal her mentor had chosen. In time, she put away her kodachis and left them to be quite forgotten at the bottom of some unknown cabinet in their house behind the university.
Eiji never married, but he asked Jikiri every week to do him that particular honor. He remained a simple man throughout his days, content with his gardens and with teaching young women how to make things grow and flourish. His advice on such matters became highly sought after, with even the head gardener of the Imperial Gardens often seeking his opinion.
Naoya and Chou remained as feisty as ever, and though they had no more children, both took great pride in watching Eiko grow and become quite a remarkable young woman. Eiko soon took over most of the routine operations of Snowflake Sweets, leaving the older women to what they loved best: cooking and gossiping.
Saitou worked for some years as a kendo instructor at the Tokyo Women’s University. As far as Tokio could tell, he enjoyed passing on sword skills and Bushido to the next generation, even if they were women. Tokio supposed that he knew that no more swordsmen of a particular caliber existed. He had outlived most, if not all, of their kind. And though Japan still had her enemies, his time was best spent training others for the duty he had once borne solely upon his own shoulders.
They became quite old together. And though he now carried a bokken outside of their house, Saitou practiced kata every morning with his katana. His movements never became any the less precise. He never slipped, never grew tired, never skipped a single day.
And Tokio watched, every morning, until he finished his performance.
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