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[Mariko Shimada]

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“I morn the passing of summer
Only to treasure the ice covered ponds
And empty gardens”

The first cold rain of late autumn set the mood as gray swollen clouds hung heavy over the city of Zento. The side streets and alleys were swept clean of the fallen Ash and Maple leaves. Red and orange, they had coated the streets and tiny lawns of the houses. Old men gathered them up with bamboo rakes and set them to smoldering. But that was weeks ago. Now, with the slate roofs running black and slick with rain, there is little to do but watch.

Mariko knelt at a low table. Her hand deftly poised over a blank sheet of rice paper parchment. A brush made from fine sable-hair dangled from her fingers. Black ink saturated the brush. She paused then brought brush to parchment as she quickly drew the word;

“Jinsei.”; “LIFE”

Raising the brush above the parchment she paused once more then quickly drew the word;

“Seimei”; “PURE/CLEAN”; beneath the first.

And, under that she drew the word;

“Jurei.”; “LONG LIFE”;


“One must always strive to live their life with a pure heart and mind regardless if it is a short life or a long one.” A monk had told her when she last visited the temple to offer prayers to the ancestors and those she missed in life.

Autumn had been quiet with few visitors passing through the gates of the Okiya and even less requests from the Mainland. But this was the way of things. Life moved in cycles and one did not begrudge the rainy months or the quiet times. This was a time to practice and perfect the arts she had dedicated her life to and a time to listen as Umeko recited a poem of unrequited love she had memorized only yesterday.

Depending on their station in life, the citizens of Zento plodded through or skirted around the mud soaked puddles. Men with oversized straw hats and thatched shoulder capes worked in the downpours to repair the stone culverts that carried excess rainwater to the bay. Ronin, samurai without position to a Lord or House, sat in the teahouse drinking sake and watching the workmen through the open windows. Amused, the Ronin took bets on which workman would slip and fall into the culvert to be carried in the torrent halfway to the bay before being rescued. They watched in silence as Mariko passed by, protected from the rain under her autumn hued higasa. She stepped very carefully so as not to slip off her getas lest she become the object of yet another Ronin wager. She knew, however, the hem of her kimono would be soaked and mud splattered by the time she reached home. It didn’t mater; not really. One could not stop the rain by wishing.

“Repeat please,” she asked softly.

Umeko bowed and recited the poem, once more in its entirety. As she listened, Mariko set aside the sable-hair brush and prepared another sheet of rice-paper parchment. This time she drew the words:

“Setsuai”

“Shinkan” and

“Yasuraka”

Placing the parchment, ink and brush aside, she laid her hands on her lap, closed her eyes and listened to the gentle, clear voice of young Umeko as she recited the last refrain of the poem:

“When the cherry-flower blooms
My dear loves namesake
I shall long for her
Each year and evermore.”