Kitchen

by Banana Yoshimoto

Usually, the first time I go to a house, face to face with people I barely know, I feel an immense loneliness.

I saw myself reflected in the glass of the large terrace window while black gloom spread over the rain-hounded night panorama. I was tied by blood to no creature in this world. I could go anywhere, do anything. It was dizzying.

Like Helen Keller when she understood “water” for the first time,

the more I found out about these people, the more I didn’t know what to expect.

But I trusted their kitchen.

It was midday. From the building’s garden we could hear the shouts of children playing in the springlike weather. The plants near the window, enveloped in the gentle sunlight, sparkled bright green; far off in the pale sky, thin clouds gently flowed, suspended. It was a warm, lazy afternoon.