I was eleven. It was a rainy, gray spring.
I saw the whole city for the first time, standing in the sky.
It was glistening. Tokyo, Roppongi, Hiro-o all shone out from beneath me – they would not be defeated by gray skies.
I saw the green, green trees.
I saw the gray-white buildings with people smoking on the porches.
I saw the park, the water and the bridge.
I saw the embassies below.
I saw the land I loved in all its glory and all its grace.
I saw home.
I did not see the drunk woman slip on the road, or the onijiji who tried to lift her skirt.
I did not see my teacher slip away to smoke a cigarette.
I did not see the obasan begging for money, or hear her tales of a husband lost in war.