Close Encounters of the Human Kind

Early morning exercise over, resting on a park bench watching the sunrise change the light on the water.

Thoughts tumbling through my mind, triggered by a bouquet, commemorating some ancestral anniversary, left by a brass plaque of dedication.

My ancestors:

grandfather, hair turned white by the horrors heaped upon him in the Flanders trenches; unapproachable, unyielding:

My father, mind scarred and endlessly replaying Chindit Burmese jungle terrors; unpredictable, unloving, unlovable.

A slightly built woman crested the rise, silhouetted against the rising sun, which made a halo of her dandelion clock hair. Her long powder blue coat, loosely tied, sash-like, at the waist. She moved with short, rapid steps on tiny trainer-clad feet that peeked out below baggy trousers.

As she came closer, I saw that she was Asian, perhaps Japanese, her face powdered a snowy white, her lips a deep vermillion. Now elderly, her face still bore testament to her beauty in her youth. She had a large leather shopping bag in the crook of her arm. A battered, red leatherette transistor radio poked from the top, playing barely audible sounds. I imagined I heard dreamlike, ethereal voices wax and wane, broadcast from far away and long ago.

Her lips moved silently to the sound, not singing but in conversation, perhaps confession or contrition, respect or remorse.

She dropped eye contact, a seeming bow, and stopped at the next bench.

From the bag she produced dusters, yellow and folded into quarters, which I imagined were laundered daily. She carefully wiped the dew from the bench and buffed the brass plaque. She sprayed polish and shone the wooden seat.

She turned to me and bowed again before moving on.

I walked to the bench and looked at the plaque. It bore only two words

“Omoidasu - Remember”.