Brandon Shane

Reflecting on Ogimi Village

They always warned me about the mountain boar, telling stories of children who wandered into the forest, never to return. There was a bay right outside the village, and Uncle Masa would catch tako (octopus) by throwing a line over the sidewalk railing and patiently waiting. My grandfather had a farm in walking distance, always seen smoking cigarettes, drinking Orion every night to celebrate a hard day's work, as his dog that exclusively lived in the fields, got her daily head pats. Ogimi village is full of octogenarians, but you'd never know by their activity. My grandmother would pound mochi in the backyard with a wooden stick, wrapping it in a leaf before serving. There was an old woman who operated an ice cream truck for decades, and when she died, so too did her treats (which were often given out for free). Things would simply cease to exist when the person did, because everything was provided by a unique member of an aging society, and unlike cities of the world where there is a cutthroat line forming behind your resignation, the expectation in Ogimi was an elegy, and subsequent absence that imprinted burial into reality.