The cherry blossoms always take me back to the spring mornings of my childhood. From one day to the next winter would give way to spring as the sakura would burst into life, shades of pink and white frosting the hilltops above my father’s house. Then in a few short weeks the petals would become a plesant springtime snow of sorts, floating on the breeze.
Looking at the cherry blossoms here, on the other side of the world, is both a comfort and a great sadness; I wish that I could return to Hokkaido and the land that my father watched over until the end of his days, mourning that his one son was lost to him.
There are few tragedies greater in any life than exile. Certainly there are even greater burdens to bear, disease, bereavement, poverty and so forth, but my experience of living as an outcast in a foreign land has only served to give me the belief that exile is as heavy as any other weight one might have to carry. Even those I might seek out in America who are from Japan shun my company; my crimes are known.
