The Movement

The lanterns come alive against the setting sun and slowly turn red, orange, and yellow. The golden hue from the sky touching Mount Otowa’s peak is flawlessly balanced by the dimly glowing lights on the streets and inside the machiyas—which all seem painted by an artist whose sorrow could only translate to love. Time may have ceased in this corner of the world. The artificiality of metropolis, and the triviality of humans, have been exorcised here. And in this city where profound art and culture hide behind effortless simplicity, I feel reborn. Every single drop of grief and pain that I’ve felt since November 15, 1991, is gently washing away in the evening scent of the incense, the spectacle of the lanterns, the echo of the toll bells augmented by the symphony of evening cicadas, the taste of exhilarating fresh air soaked in sakura blooms, and the touch of her hand, entwined with mine.