AFTERWORD

I hope you’ll forgive my relating an old memory in place of an afterword.

When I was in sixth grade, there was a boy in my class who was literally a genius. He was a central figure in our class with a sharp mind and good family background who was also gentle, with a smile that could brighten a room. He was shining with charisma. I happened to become friends with this boy because we shared the same interests. Fishing and foreign mystery novels. I wouldn’t know how to rate that combination.

I was also assigned to the same group as him. Naturally, he was the leader of the group. Once there was an event in which a group from every class was supposed to perform before the entire grade. Our group was running out of time to decide on a performance when he said, “Let’s do a play,” and wrote an original script. I’ll never forget it. I was rolling around on the floor laughing with tears in my eyes as I read his script. I didn’t know it was possible for something so funny to exist.

And we were able to faithfully perform that scenario under his direction. Our play had the sixth graders laughing. Even the teachers were laughing. Our group won the gold award and a wooden shield. I can still remember the role I played as though it happened yesterday.

After that I enjoyed middle school with him before he went on to a high school far away, and a college that was even farther away.

At times I would wonder if I could ever make people laugh the way he did—and if his script had flipped a switch somewhere in my mind—

That feeling took root in my mind and became an unforgettable memory.

… Guess that wasn’t long enough. I’ll continue with a second memory.

In high school, I was a member of the literary club for a brief moment. I mainly focused on a different club, so I only went to the literary club once a week, if that. However, the club only met once a week to begin with. The first time I knocked on the door, I was greeted by an intelligent-looking girl with glasses who happened to be the only member, the president of the club, and an upperclassman. I can’t remember if I said anything or if I even had anything to say. It’s entirely possible that we never spoke at all.

After I joined the club, the two of us made a literary club magazine. I’d rather not remember what I wrote at the time. Not a story. I also drew the cover. Don’t want to remember that either. The two of us couldn’t fill all the pages by ourselves, so she asked a number of her friends to contribute articles. On an unrelated note, one of those friends had a very striking name that I can still remember.

Once that upperclassman was a senior, she quit the club to focus on her studies. At the same time, around five new members joined. Not sure why. I was having much more fun in my other club, so I soon stopped going to the literary club.

I ran into that upperclassman on the day she graduated. I don’t remember what we talked about. We probably just chatted idly for a bit before I watched her leave.

I can’t remember the name of that upperclassman. I’m sure that she doesn’t remember my name either. But I would hope that she remembers the existence of such a person at the time.

The way I do.

… And so I more or less filled up the afterword with a couple sonnets about painful memories that don’t sound very real, but I have to admit that when I dug through my hazy memories, there were many more headaches than humorous episodes, enough to make me swoon… I’d find myself wondering if I could have handled something better, but that would accomplish about as much as wondering about the fate of a soccer ball floating down a river. I should probably focus on something else.

Finally, I would like to offer a dance of gratitude to the publishers of this book, along with the readers. Until next time.