South of the Border, West of the Sun: A Novel (Vintage International)

by Haruki Murakami

“Those were my baby’s ashes. The only baby I ever had,” Shimamoto said, as if talking to herself. I looked at her, then looked ahead. Trucks sprayed up muddy melted snow, and I had to turn on the wipers every once in a while. “My baby died the day after it was born,” she said. “It lived just one day. I held it only a couple of times. It was a beautiful baby. So very soft … They didn’t know the cause, but it couldn’t breathe well. When it died it was already a different color.” I couldn’t say a thing. I reached out my hand and placed it on hers. “It was a baby girl. Without a name.” “When was that?” “This time last year. In February.” “Poor thing,” I said. “I didn’t want to bury it anywhere. I couldn’t stand the thought of it in some dark place. I wanted to keep it beside me for a while, then let it flow into the sea and turn into rain.”