Chapter Two: Kenji's Visit

She tried to delay his departure as long as possible, fearful of the emptiness his absence would magnify. She fixed his favorite foods and set them before him, not partaking, content to watch him relish her cooking. She does it so rarely anymore, not having the energy to cook for herself, not really seeing the point of it. An apple or banana here and there, a carton of yogurt, dried cereal, a salad for lunch, and her dietary needs were met. Even popping a Lean Cuisine in the microwave took too much effort.

She drank in his presence as if she'd never see him again; memorizing his features, as if he'd brought her hope in a brightly wrapped box. Her fingers itched to explore his face, push his hair off his forehead, but she clinched them tight.

They talked about nothing. They talked about everything. It hadn't been that long since his last visit, a few months, but it felt like a life time. He told her about his teaching and his students and she felt it was because he wanted to fill the silence. She was flattered that he cared, this only child of her closest friends.

She had known him since before he was born, feeling him kick inside the womb, singing to him so he'd rest and give his mother some peace. He kicked so hard that a glass flew off her swollen belly and hit the wall, like a good kenshi[1].

He'd grown up right, the anger gone from his eyes, the sense of maturity in his very bearing. She remembered him as a toddler, chasing Yahiko with a bokken[2] , crying if his mother was out of sight. She still recalled how sweet he smelled, all sweaty and tearful, when she'd scoop him up and sing to him. When he was ten, he was awkward with brooding eyes and a cloud of emptiness hung over him. She couldn't stand him then, wanting to slap the sadness away. He had everything a child could want, but he refused to be happy, carrying his anger as a badge of identity. She would tuck him into bed when she visited and he'd beg for a song, his anger fading from his eyes briefly and the child she loved appearing. At fifteen, his anger blossomed into rebellion until he lost the thing he hated most and had to start looking for a base of stability. He stayed with her that summer, doing chores around the office, running errands. She'd hoped he'd stay for school that fall, but encouraged him to return home where he was needed.

As a college student, he'd been an arrogant know-it-all, and rarely found time to visit or call. She sent him spending money and care packages and he'd email a thank you, but never say what he was doing. Now the circle was complete. He was waiting the birth of his first child, becoming a father himself.

That was why he was here; really needing some reassurance that he'd be a good father, that he'd be a better father than his father.

She poured him a cup of tea, her fingers lingering on his shoulder. This man is the best of them, of us, she thought. Kenshin's hair and bearing, Kaoru's heart and spirit, Kenshin's eyes, Kaoru's soul. She wanted to comfort him and tell him that he was a different person than his father, that his father loved him, and that he'd be a great father, but she was afraid they'd be just more empty words. She feverishly racked her brain, searching for something. She remembered one of her most precious belongings, excusing herself to find it.

She knelt in front of him, a small black lacquered box cupped in her hand, as if it held precious jewels. Her fingers caressed the embossed cherry blossoms on the lid one last time. She offered it to him silently.

He took the ceramic box, feeling its warmth from her hands and lifted the lid. He caught his breath. His mother's favorite filigreed silver hair comb, handed from her grandmother to her mother to his mother, lay on the purple velvet. Confused, he looked at Megumi's face. "I thought we buried this -," he started.

Megumi shook her head no. Her voice choked. She pushed away the sadness, amazed she felt so strongly after all this time, as if it was yesterday, the feelings were still so raw. "That was the one your father gave her when they got married. It was the one she loved to wear because it reminded her of him. But look," she pointed to the box with her eyes.

He picked up the comb and under it was a small spool of his father's hair wrap, the one he'd worn all his life. He fingered the faded cord, remembering her mother lovingly brushing the tangles and snares out his father's long, unruly hair and wrapping it with this cord. He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled it back. Megumi took the faded cord from his hands and quickly wrapped it around his hair. She caught his profile and with his hair pulled back, he looked so much like Kenshin when she first met him. Tears formed in her eyes.

"Why do you have this?" he responded softly.

"This is the container I gave him that held the medicine he needed. He carried it with him during his travels. He'd give it back when it was gone and I'd fill it again. The last time he gave it back, these were inside and I knew it was too late. There was no longer any medicine that would help. It was his way of saying thank you and good-by. I used some of his hair cord when we prepared him for his final journey." She shook off the memories.

"But now that you're married, your mother would love to see the mother of her grandchild wearing her grandmother's comb in her hair. And the hair cord- well, that's up to you." She kissed his cheek lightly. "You are the man he might have been if he had had a different path to follow, a different childhood. You are the best of him, the best of us."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, hugging her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been embraced and it felt too good. It will be twice as cold here when he leaves, she thought.

She watched him drive off until the car faded away, until the last dust trail fell to the ground. The silence grew. She sighed and went in to wash up, thankful for the distraction, finding comfort in the distracting task. When she was done, she returned to her front porch and her eyes searched the distant horizon. She longed for the tall man of her youth to return, but she couldn't lie to herself anymore. Their final good-by had been as painful as the one she'd said for the parents of the young man who'd just left. It had been forever, and she was so tired of being alone, so gray, so lonely.


[1] Term meaning fighter, not of the samurai class

[2] wooden sword