on the planet

I spend the New Year holidays at my wife’s family home almost every year. This land, cradled by the sea and mountains, is filled with colors seldom seen in the city.
In the pale-blue (asagi-colored) sea, the wooden poles—remnants of seaweed farming—stand in silence. There is the deep green of the winter cabbage fields, and the golden earth and fallen leaves shimmering in the sunlight. The shapes of the clouds and the colors of the sky look as if someone had arranged them with intent. Colors that I usually overlook are spreading out here as if they were breathing.
What especially caught my eye were the furaiki (great catch flags) hoisted by three fishing boats. I hadn’t seen them since the pandemic. These vibrant flags, adorned with sea bream, waves, and ceremonial noshi designs, were fluttering powerfully in the crisp winter air.
When I returned to the house, the osechi dishes prepared by my mother-in-law were laid out. I listened to stories about the two cats living with her. Their grandmother was a stray cat that had grown fond of my mother-in-law when she was young. One day, she gave birth to three kittens at the front door, and one of them stayed in the house. Eventually, that kitten became a mother herself and gave birth to the two cats here now.
For a long time, it seemed these cats only trusted my mother-in-law, but lately, they are said to nuzzle up to anyone. Perhaps they are lonely for company, or perhaps they have grown gentler with the passing years. As my wife and mother-in-law chatted about such things, the warmth of the kotatsu drifted me toward a peaceful sleep.