Four Hours as Husband and Wife

Dear Shigeko,

Are you doing well? One month has passed since that night. The happy dream has vanished.

I am writing this by lantern light in the officers’ quarters at Chiran. Outside, the cherry blossoms are falling. I thought of you when I saw them — the way they scattered across the playground when we were children, and how you would catch them in your palms and laugh. I have been catching them in my palms today, Shigeko. I have been trying to remember your laugh.

Do you remember how we used to fight? Every day, about everything. About whose turn it was to swing first, about whether the river was too cold for swimming, about which star was the brightest. You would cross your arms and turn away and I would poke your shoulder until you turned back, and then you would hit me, and then we would laugh, and then we would be friends again. I think I loved you even then, though I did not have the words for it. You were the most stubborn, most beautiful, most infuriating girl I have ever known. And I married you. In the dark, with a tired priest and two candles and the whole world burning around us. And it was the best thing I have ever done.

Four hours. That is all we had. Four hours of lying beside you in the dark, listening to you breathe, feeling the warmth of your body next to mine. I did not sleep. I spent the whole night memorising the sound of your breathing, the curve of your shoulder, the way your hair smelled of camellia oil. I wanted to remember every detail because I knew — I have always known — that I would need them where I am going.

I am not afraid of dying. They tell us we are doing something noble, something sacred. Perhaps we are. But I am afraid of you being alone. I am afraid of the long life that stretches ahead of you — fifty, sixty years of waking up without me beside you. I feel as if my heart will break when I think of your long life ahead. Please somehow be strong in spirit and be happy. Please do not mourn me too long. Please find someone who will hold you in the dark and listen to you breathe the way I did, for those four hours that contained the whole of my life.

If we have a son, tell him about me. Tell him I was not a great man, but I tried to be a good one. Tell him I loved his mother since I was seven years old and she pushed me into a puddle for stealing her rice ball. Tell him I flew toward the sun so that he could grow up in the shade.

Living for an eternal cause, this country I will protect always as a humble shield. But know this, Shigeko — I would rather have been your husband for a thousand years than a hero for a single day.

I am placing this letter in the envelope now. The engines are warming up outside. The boys are singing — some old army song about cherry blossoms and the sea. I do not join them. I am writing to you instead. I will write until the very last moment.

Goodbye, my wife. My only love. My Shigeko.

Be happy. Live long. Remember me, but do not let the memory consume you.

Haruo

P.S. — I have left my officer’s sword with the base commander. He will send it to you along with this letter. I also left the ribbon you gave me in primary school. It is faded and frayed. I have carried it for ten years. Keep it for our child.