On a weekend morning, having slept in, I sat before pancakes and tea and listened to my son talk about things he’d learned recently and things that had happened yesterday. He mentioned that the Earth spins at about 1,374 kilometers per hour near Japan. Wondering why people and objects aren't simply flung off, he offered his own theory.
After breakfast, my son was communicating with his unseen Friends through an online game. I retreated to my room to continue yesterday’s work. I recalled a question I’d been asked about photography the day before. Was my answer sufficient? I felt that a single word wouldn’t have been enough. The breath of my son, idling by the window, was turning the glass white with condensation. He was waiting for his buddies to arrive. The rain that had fallen since last night had stopped, but the wet asphalt still held a deep, dark color.
My wife went out for a walk after the meal. When his buddies arrived, my son and they were laughing as they played a game together. When my wife returned, we ate her handmade dorayaki with warm coffee. A lively discussion started over whether smooth anko or chunky anko was superior.
The slanting sunlight pouring in from the south window intensified and faded in repetition, matching the breaks in the clouds. The newspaper wrapping the dried flowers we had bought recently was printed with the current world news. The setting sun was illuminating my wife as she wrapped the flowers with that very newspaper.
