I will never forget the house in Ashiya, where I lived from 1972 to 1973. The shape of the shadow under the arched entry porch, the cream-colored walls against the green of the mountains, the pattern of grapes on the railings of the veranda, the two towers with their ornamental windows. Every inch of it is etched in my memory, from the grand sight of the exterior to the particular odor in each of the seventeen rooms, from the quality of the light in the garden to the cool touch of the doorknobs.
Now, after thirty years have passed, there is no trace of the house. The sturdy palm trees that grew at either side of the door, as though keeping guard over the family, have withered and been uprooted, and the pond at the southern end of the garden has been filled in with earth. The land long ago passed into other hands and was divided up, and is now home to strangers, the residents of a nondescript apartment block and a dormitory for the employees of a chemical company.
But perhaps because they are now so completely removed from reality, nothing in the world can dim my memories. My uncle’s house still stands in my mind, and the members of his family, those who have grown old as well as those who have died, live on there as they once did. Whenever I return there in my memory, their voices are as lively as ever, their smiling faces full of warmth.
Grandmother Rosa, seated before the makeup mirror she brought from Germany as part of her trousseau, carefully rubbing her face with beau.