Nihonshu no Hi: Alone

October drifts in like a quiet ghost at my door.

I pour sake into my grandmother’s cup

the one painted with cherry blossoms

that never faded, no matter how much else in this house has.

The harvest moon peers through the window

as I break the seal alone.

No wooden mallet, no laughter,

no one to cheer the start of fortune

only this small ritual,

this conversation with absence.

I remember the years we toasted together,

voices rising with warmth that lived longer than the drink itself.

Now the sake tastes of autumn rain,

of unsent letters,

of footsteps that stopped coming home.

They call it Nihonshu no Hi

a day to honor the patient craft,

the turning of grain into spirit.

But I honor something else:

the turning of joy into memory,

company into solitude,

a woman into her own keeper of ceremony.

“Hallowed be my name,” I whisper,

as I lift the cup with my own hands,

feel the warmth trace its path down my throat.

They say October marks new beginnings,

fresh brews and untold stories.

But tonight I taste only endings

the last of the bottle,

the dimming of the light,

the quiet surrender

of waiting for someone who won’t return.

Still, I pour another measure,

watch it shimmer under the lamp like liquid moon.

Tomorrow the sake will be gone,

but tonight I am my own guest,

my own celebration,

my own small reason to keep this tender tradition alive

one sip, one season,

one ceremony at a time.