Strange Weather in Tokyo

by Hiromi Kawakami

I was sitting on a large tree stump and looking up at the sky. Sensei and Satoru and Toru had all ventured much further into the forest. The ta-ra-ra-ra-ra was now off in the distance and in its place I could hear a high-pitched ru-ru-ru-ru-ru. The area where I sat was slick with dampness. It wasn’t just that the ground was moist—all around me, it felt like it was bursting: with the leaves on the trees, the undergrowth, the countless microorganisms under the ground, the flat bugs crawling over the surface, the winged insects flitting through the air, the birds perched on branches, even the breath of the larger animals that inhabited the deeper forest. I could only see a small patch of sky, the part that was left open between the treetops of the forest around me. The branches seemed like a network that in some places almost obscured the sky. Once my eyes had adjusted to the faint light, I realized that the undergrowth was alive with all manner of things. Tiny orange mushrooms. Moss. Something that looked like coarse white veins on the underside of a leaf. What must be some kind of fungus. Dead beetles. Various kinds of ants. Centipedes. Moths on the backs of leaves. It seemed strange to be surrounded by so many living things. When I was in Tokyo, I couldn’t help but feel like I was always alone, or occasionally in the company of Sensei. It seemed like the only living things in Tokyo were big like us. But of course, if I really paid attention, there were plenty of other livi...

Isolated. Lonely