Work Text:
A yellow leaf floats,
By which shore will you awake
At last, cicada?
Sanemi finally got a chance to meet him only a couple of hours after his birth. Earlier, the residence had been bustling, and Sanemi himself had been too consumed with worry for his wife to even consider seeing him.
Now, however, the air in the washitsu was thick with silence and the smoke of incense as their world had finally returned from chaos to its usual tranquility and the cicadas in their garden could be heard once again.
Most of the midwives, having received their payment, had already departed. Only one remained — she tended to the exhausted new mother. The labour had drained her of all her strength which she was now recovering in her sleep. Sanemi watched over her, resting peacefully, his gaze softened by her serenity as he followed the steady rhythm of her breathing. It was then when he was called over to meet his son. His son. How strange was the sound of it. With the commotion now ended, Sanemi had almost forgotten the very reason for it to have begun.
In the cradle of his arms, the baby looked so little yet Sanemi wasn’t afraid to hold him. Too vivid in him were the memories of nurturing his younger siblings to forget the fragility of the tiny body. The pleasant warmth bloomed within his heart at the familiar sensation of a weight leaning against his chest. What a light but precious bundle.
Stepping out into the garden, Sanemi sat down on the illuminated engawa to contemplate his son’s features in the light of the rising sun. A smile tugged at the stiff cruel line of his lips. The baby’s skin was still so pink and translucent, as if he were made of cherry petals rather than human flesh. The sunrays hitting his tiny fingers shone through them ever so slightly, and Sanemi could see all the blood vessels running through the rosy digits — each of them no thicker than a hair. Sanemi’s hand gently brushed against the plump ruddy cheek, only briefly stirring his son from his slumber. Had his touch been even a little firmer, then rough calluses would have surely grazed the baby’s skin. Thankfully, it wasn’t. His small face only scrunched up for a moment from such a clumsy caress. A barely audible chuckle escaped Sanemi’s lips. Even in displeasure, his son still endeared him.
No, the touch alone would never be enough to soothe the overwhelming feeling taking root in him. To envelop him in the melting warmth of his own body, to shield him from all adversities with his broad chest, to keep him in the cradle of his arms, in the cocoon of his embrace, until the end of times — only that could tame the soul-crushing tenderness and not even of that Sanemi was sure. How quickly his heart had been claimed by the one he was seeing for the first time.
Sanemi’s hand reached for the ribbons of the cloth wrap to loosen it and allow the breeze to cool his son, who, it seemed to him, was overheating in the tight swaddle. As he began tugging at the knot, the baby’s warm little hand wrapped around the fingers of his father’s right hand. Four pink digits striked a strange sight, barely curling over Sanemi’s two remaining ones, dry and swarthy. His gaze drifted to the two nubs next to his intact fingers jutting out of his palm like unsightly stumps. Then his eyes returned to his son, to his fair face.
Such a creature could not be his own flesh and blood, Sanemi mused in disbelief. He was too fresh, too tender, compared to his father. No scars marred his skin and all his fingers were whole. Pure as the driven snow. A young soul untouched by the cruelty of fate. Sanemi brought his son’s tiny palm to his lips. It was hard to believe that such a lovely new life had come from his own worn, wounded body.
Sanemi’s gaze once again turned to his son. The small features beamed with a soft light of the morning sun.
And yet it was his son. Just as winter gives life to spring, so too could he be a father to his child. The more Sanemi looked, the more similarities he picked up on. The baby bore features from both parents, yet he wasn’t an exact likeness of either. Neither his father nor his mother gave him much in appearance. Who, then? The answer hovered just on the edge of Sanemi’s mind, always within reach but slipping away each time he tried to grasp it.
Another languor blossomed in his soul. The smile once again tugged at the corner of his lips. Their son, Sanemi kept repeating to himself. The realization was just beginning to settle for him.
Sanemi pressed his cheek against his son’s chest. The tiny heart beat thin and rapid, echoing the song of the cicadas in the garden. A faint smell of milk reached his nose. His wife must have found the strength to feed the baby before resting. Perhaps that was exactly why he was sleeping so soundly, nestled in his father’s arms, instead of tossing and fussing. The milky scent was delicate, almost masked by the freshness of boiled linens, but it lingered. All his younger siblings had smelled just like this.
He sniffed the air again — with his eyes closed this time — and long-forgotten images rose to the surface in his mind. Their old hut on the edge of the village. An engawa made from crumbled planks which attracted the warmest of sun rays. His mother’s voice and the movements of her small hands as she taught Sanemi how to care for the younger ones. The endless stream of children’s laughter, crying, and gurgling. Cuddling and comforting his brothers and sisters. The hustle and bustle of working days, during which Sanemi spent every free moment with the children. Bitter, unyielding winters. The gnawing hunger that often accompanied them to bed. And yet, the warmth found in the arms of family. Sanemi sometimes longed deeply for that past life — ordinary and measured, no matter how hard it had been.
His hands began instinctively to rock his suddenly restless son. The sight of his tiny fists which the baby kept raising up in the air with such determination, brought Sanemi a sense of comfort. He turned to the entrance to the engawa. In the dim light of the room, the silhouette of his wife remained outlined. His wife — it was their son now squirming in his embrace. A second chance, granted to him by mercyful fate. And Sanemi was grateful for such generosity. The rest of the life allotted to him, he would spend here, in this estate with his family. In the name of all the hardships and losses along his path — he would have a content life.
Yet the baby still wouldn’t calm down. Besides his erratic movements, a whimper began leaping off his lips. Displeasure contorted the small, bright face. Did the ribbons of the linens cause him such discomfort? Sanemi himself was not used to caring for tightly swaddled children. He really did overheat, then — for babies left in the sun it’s a matter of a couple of minutes, especially with their heads covered. Sanemi’s fingers found the knot beneath his son’s chin, and moments later, he was already pulling the blanket away from the baby’s head.
A small tuft of hair crowned his head. Black hair. Sanemi’s gaze lingered on the familiar lock that fell across his son’s forehead. His hand rose instinctively, fingertips gently brushed through the hair — coarse strands, rough to the touch. Neither he nor his wife had hair like this. His lips pressed into a bloodless line. But Sanemi already knew that. The palm returned to stroking the black hair. Sanemi wanted to check if it was real or not.
At that moment, the father’s touch had bothered the baby’s delicate body enough to make him open his eyes. How sternly they looked at Sanemi, their bleary gaze conveying all the depth of his tiny displeasure.
Earlier in the day, when his son had just been born, Sanemi had overheard the midwives cooing over the baby in the washitsu. They marveled at the striking resemblance the baby’s eyes bore to his father’s. Like two drops of water, two pairs of eyes. Yet Sanemi didn’t see the similarities. The baby’s eyes were too large, too obliquely set, too dark to be his father’s. Deep purple didn’t quite match the pale lilac of his own. His lower lip trembled. Those were not Sanemi’s eyes, but his.
“Genya,” Sanemi cried softly.
He buried his face in the curve of his son’s chubby neck. A groan caught in his throat as his shoulders trembled with silent sobs. Hot tears slid down his cheeks, and Sanemi hastily brushed them away with the sleeve of his yukata. He was afraid that the heavy drops would fall onto his son, and that he would melt away in his arms.
How the sun bathed him in its light, dusting him with gold. No, Sanemi would never let him slip away again, like sand through his fingers.
Tears still lingered in his eyes as Sanemi forced a smile. His lips pressed a soft kiss to his son’s head. From the house, his wife’s voice called out — hoarse and sleepy — summoning him back into the coolness of the washitsu. Clutching his son tightly to his chest, he stepped off the engawa. It was only at the last moment that his gaze returned to the garden.
How loudly the cicadas sang that morning.