A Bright Spot in a Dark April
“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
When I first read “The Waste Land” in college, the opening stanza always perplexed me.
April was the beginning of spring, of baseball and of ice cream, a harbinger that the school year was almost over. It was a happy time for me. Why did Eliot call it the cruelest month?
Now when I read these lines, they have a completely different meaning. April has not been the kindest month to my family. Both my father and my favorite aunt died in April, albeit decades apart.
And I don’t think anyone will forget April 2020 no matter who they are or where they live.
In April 2017, my roots had been completely ripped out of the ground. As I wrote in An Empty Room, So Full, my mother died in early March that year. I spent most of the month at my family home in New York, and when I left on March 30 I knew it was probably for the last time. It was.
I felt adrift.
The morning of April 1, 2017 found me in a familiar place, walking from the subway station at Keihan Sanjo to Gion Kobu. I was going to visit my friend T-san to tell him all that had happened with my mother.
There was no spring rain. In fact, it was a beautiful spring day, but I was tired and numb. I had arrived back in Kyoto the night before and woken up very early with jet lag. A walk in the morning sun would do me good, so I went to visit T-san.
When I approached the “home bar” of T-san’s ochaya, where I knew he would already be waiting for me, I almost smiled to see that the door was open half way. T-san was sitting in his usual spot, and I stepped inside.
And there, concealed by the half open door, was Kohana, waiting for me.
I was stunned. T-san explained that Kohana had been passing by and waited to say hello to me.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if T-san had told Kohana about my mother or not, and I didn’t want to bring it up if she didn’t know.
We made small talk for a minute, and they I noticed her kimono. It was a unique shade of green I had never seen before, and there were white birds flying all over it. If you scroll down to the end of this post, you’ll be able to see it.
The photographer in me took over. “Why do the maiko I know always were the most beautiful kimono on the days I’m not photographing them?” I asked her, half in earnest, half in jest.
“I don’t know,” she said.
I talked with Kohana for a few minutes, avoiding the subject of my mother. Then T-san said something, and I looked at Kohana, and I knew that she knew. She didn’t have to say anything. She just nodded her head, and I understood.
Kohana had to leave, so we said good-bye. I told her I would see her at Miyako Odori some time that month. When she left, T-san told me that Kohana had just happened to be passing by when he was opening up the bar, and he told her about my mother and asked if she could wait for me to say hello.
“She was waiting for more than 10 minutes, and she’s really busy,” he said. “She’s a nice person.”
I had been standing the whole time I was talking with Kohana, so I finally sat down. I told T-san everything that had happened to me in the time since I had last seen him.
When I was finished, he went behind the bar, opened a cabinet, and reached for a bottle on the top shelf. The good stuff. He told me it was very special sake that sold for about $100 a glass. He put 2 glasses on the bar, poured, and said, “Let’s drink to your mother.”
And we did.
For a few minutes at least, my memories and desires were forgotten, thanks to Kohana and T-san.
I did see Kohana a few days later, when she was assisting at the tea ceremony at Miyako Odori. I sat in the very back of the room, but she still saw me and smiled when I waved good-bye as a I left.
Since Miyako Odori was being performed at the Kyoto University of Art & Design that year, it was ending a few days before April 30, the date it traditionally ends.
I thought it would be a good idea to photograph Kohana before the end of the month. Until then I had never had a photos session with a maiko or geiko from Gion Kobu in April because they were always so busy with Miyako Odori. I also wanted to thank Kohana for being there on April 1.
I had only photographed her twice before, so I didn’t really know her that well. But she had waited for me nonetheless. It meant a lot to me. It still does.
On April 28 I had my third photo session with Kohana. We began in the roji (a garden with a path through it) of Masuume, the ochaya/okiya where Kohana lives.
I was photographing her in an alcove off to the side of the roji. Suddenly, Kohana disappeared from my view. I bent down to see where she went and found her smiling face peering out at me through this little “window” in the wall.
I quickly brought my camera up to my eye and made a few photographs.
I don’t remember much from our photo session that day; my mind was still in a daze even though I had been back in my new home for almost a month.
I do know that I’ll never forget the image posted here, Kohana’s playful smile, or seeing her behind that door on April 1.
The memory always brings a smile to my face, and we all need things to smile about right now, don’t we?
May Kohana bring a smile to your face as well — and may you stay safe, healthy, and happy!
Kohana on the garden path in front of ochaya Masuume in Gion Kobu in Kyoto