tenbukuro
Marine Day, a holiday. Still raining.
Above the oshiire there's a small cupboard right under the ceiling, the tenbukuro, with two little sliding doors. I'd never opened it. The doors were stuck, the edges glued shut with the new wallpaper paste.
This morning I stood on a chair and ran a butter knife along the gap until they gave.
Dust, a dead moth, and a blue tin of Danish butter cookies, the round kind every Japanese grandmother keeps her sewing things in.
Inside were postcards. The official New Year ones, nengajo, with the postage already printed on and a lottery number on the bottom. Each one addressed only ゆみへ, "to Yumi." No address, no surname.
I counted nineteen.
The one on top is for this year, the year of the boar. There's a small boar printed in the corner. In blue pen, in careful square handwriting:
明けましておめでとう。元気ですか。こちらは元気です。今年も朝顔を植えます。
Happy New Year. Are you well? I am well. I'll plant morning glories again this year.
I put the lid back on and put the tin on my table. It's been there for four hours.