Kitchen

by Banana Yoshimoto

The hum of the refrigerator kept me from thinking of my loneliness.

There was a warm light, like her afterimage, softly glowing in my heart.

When was it I realized that, on this truly dark and solitary path we all walk, the only way we can light is our own? Although I was raised with love, I was always lonely.

Little by little, light and air came into my heart.

I loved his hearty robustness, I thirsted after it, but in spite of that I couldn’t keep pace with it, and it made me hate myself.

The scratching of our pens mingled with the sound of raindrops beginning to fall in the transparent stillness of the evening.

When was it that Eriko and I last saw each other? Had we parted laughing?

But love is not a joke, it also means sharing someone else’s pain.

Her warmth banished any embarrassment I might have been feeling. I only saw her untroubled smile that said to the world, “What have I got to be ashamed of?”

I got dressed to begin another day. Over and over, we begin again.