Saturday
He didn’t reply to my last message. I figured he had fallen asleep or “lost conscious” as he put it, just as he feared he would. I had texted him from Blue Market, a favorite bar from when I lived there more than 10 years ago. I was shocked that it still existed and was so excited to start their famous nomihodai or 2-hour all-you-can-drink. I had invited Yoshi to join me and my cousins, since it was our last night in town. I knew it was a long shot that he would be able to come, as it was late and he had to put his kids to bed, but I tried anyway in the hopes that we would be able to share one more night out together.
It didn’t happen, but I was so happy just to have had the chance to hang out with him before that I wasn’t crushed, just a touch disappointed. I sent him a series of messages throughout the evening, but after a point he stopped replying and I figured sleep had gotten the best of him.
Sunday
I was up by four o’clock the next morning, my last morning in Yamagata. My heart was heavy and I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get up and walk to Kajo Park, the grounds surrounding Yamagata’s feudal castle near my old apartment. I was taking pictures of the sunrise over Yamagata and some of my favorite spots when a message came through at 4:45am.
“AAAAGGGHHH I fell asleep!”
Yoshi had apparently just regained consciousness and saw my messages from last night. I told him that I was in Kajo Park taking pictures and he replied after a heartbeat’s pause, “I’m leaving now.”
He got to the park by 5:30am and we found each other. The park was nearly empty at this early hour, with only a few elderly walkers making their way across the grassy expanses surrounding the castle. Dawn was steadily spreading its pink fingers across the greyish-blue sky and the cool air hung damp with morning dew. As I approached Yoshi, I was a little surprised that he stood with his arms semi-opened, ready to hug me – this was surprising because: a) we were in public, even if sparsely populated, and b) he had never proactively shown PDA. We hugged long and hard; I drank in his smell and the familiar feel of his hard athlete’s body against my own soft form. We pulled apart and sought a place to sit and talk.
We followed a narrow path leading to a small gazebo, surrounded by a traditional Japanese garden and perfectly landscaped to integrate into the castle grounds. Nearby, a young girl was practicing the Japanese flute, it’s long, sharp, mournful tones echoing throughout the park. The music floated along the chilly air and added to the overall feeling of deep history and tradition that enveloped us.
Yoshi noted our surroundings with bemusement, “OK. If you wanted Japanese, well…”
We sat next to each other in the damp morning air, the familiar feeling of comfort mixed with palpable physical tension washing over me. I turned slightly and took in his profile — his strong yet finely shaped nose, his high flat brow fringed with thick unruly black hair, his sharp cheekbones. My favorite features, his large almond-shaped eyes, were rimmed with dark circles, a testimony not only to the time of morning, but also to the weight of the years on him.
In fact, Yoshi’s eyes are what struck me the most about him on this trip – the familiar impish spark and thoughtfulness were still there, but now these were tempered by a weariness that bespoke many sleepless nights and perpetual worry. He always tended to wear his stress in his eyes, and the passing years and weight of his many responsibilities had multiplied this effect several times over. It broke my heart. But his dark, shining eyes still crinkled at the corners when he laughed and sparkled with mischievousness when he joked. They still looked at me with a softness that had the power to melt me down to my core. Out of sheer habit, I reached up and pushed a lock of his hair from his forehead, and he smiled at the old gesture.
We talked in general, never touching anything about “us” – because there wasn’t an “us”, should have never been and would never be. I was painfully aware of this, but I was also elated at the fact that he came out this chilly morning just to see me in person one more time before I left. We talked about our jobs and our families, we touched upon our hopes and disappointments over the past decade. He told me about his practice and some of the projects he was working on. I was always fascinated by how many things Yoshi was involved with as part of his role as a leader in the small community, from providing reduced-cost dentistry to seniors to buying prime real estate across the small city. He was perpetually hustling, so to speak, and I had always respected his hustle to the utmost.
In turn, I told him about my job and my writing, and he was enchanted by my work, both professional and personal. He told me about his grandmother, who had written a small book of poetry many years ago, and he promised to get a copy to me. We talked about quitting smoking, I told him about my many attempts to quit and he showed me his secret vape pen, his own compromise that he kept hidden from his family. Then we shared a smoke.
To me, Yoshi is infinitely fascinating and I have always sensed that he feels similarly towards my own life story, as he never tired of asking me questions or hearing more about it all. We share many similarities in our histories — from having impressively strong grandmothers to coming from old, storied families — that were both a blessing and, at times, a burden. We bonded all those many years ago over these similarities and we did so again as we sat in the small gazebo.
As always, the time worked against us and the hour we had to share with each other on this cool June morning was quickly running out. After a few more minutes of contemplative, yet comfortable silence, Yoshi turned to me and said, “It’s time for breakfast at home. I must go.”
With that, we stood up and made our way to his illegally-parked BMW that had seen better days. As we made our way to my hotel, Yoshi drove noticeably slower than necessary, allowing us to continue our conversation and squeeze every moment we had together. He parked in front of my hotel, illegally once again – highly un-Japanese of him – so he could walk me to the elevator.
We stood facing the closed elevator doors, Yoshi sputtering Japanese filler words as he did when we first met three days earlier, as he does when he’s overwhelmed and trying to find the right words to say. We finally settled on discussing the possibility of Yoshi traveling to New York with his family in the next couple of years, possibly bringing up Keith from Florida and even Matt from Vancouver. All dreams in that moment, but talking about future plans gave us some shreds of hope to cling to as we prepared to say our final goodbyes.
The conversation petered out and Yoshi was making a clicking sound in his throat again and repeating, “Well, OK” in Japanese over and over. He finally turned toward me and looked me in the face full-on for the first time since we met earlier in the morning. His eyes were brown pools of affection and sadness. I was struck by how in control I was in this moment and I held back my tears like a pro. I didn’t want to lose my composure in our last moments together, plus it was honestly comforting to see Yoshi struggling with emotions as much as I was in this final moment together.
He finally pulled me into a long, full-body hug and didn’t let go for several moments. I felt my body melting into his and I had to pull back, the feeling was too strong and too futile. He looked at me in the face once more and said, “Well…”
We were both at a loss for words by then, so we just faced each other a few moments longer. Yoshi waited for the elevator to come before he turned to leave. As I slowly boarded the elevator, I felt my emotions welling up beyond the point of control. I looked up and Yoshi was standing in the hotel doorway, waving at me with a strained smile. Thankfully the doors started to close then and I collapsed into a ball of tears the moment they did. And with that, we were done. The visit to Yamagata had come to a close.
******
unrequited 