Harakiri Y — Seppuku |top|

The chrysanthemum falls— No wind, no rain, Only the weight of the name.

“Then speak it one last time,” Kazuo replied. “And after I am gone, you may forget it. But I will not forget it. I will carry it through the gate.” At the second hour of the morning, Taro arrived. He wore a clean cotton kimono, his hair pulled back in a severe knot. Under his arm, wrapped in a faded blue cloth, was a katana. He did not bow to Kazuo. He did not need to. They had been boys together, had stolen persimmons from the shrine garden, had watched Kazuo’s father die in a toolshed because no one would grant him the dignity of a quick end. harakiri y seppuku

“At a factory? Packing fish?” Kazuo finally turned. His face was young—thirty at most—but his eyes held the exhausted fury of a caged hawk. “My father cut open his belly in 1945 rather than see an American general walk through his gate. He did it with a broken tanto, alone, in a toolshed. No second. No kaishakunin to end his suffering. He bled for twelve hours.” Kazuo’s voice cracked. “And now I am to sell the gate itself for scrap?” The chrysanthemum falls— No wind, no rain, Only

And the white chrysanthemum, splashed with red, did not stir. But I will not forget it