I don't know when I was born. I don't know who my real mother was, or my real father. I don't have one of those moments where I remember something from the dawn of my life, like a hand on my face, or a smile, or perhaps a gentle voice.
I have no memory of something like that.
I suppose it is a logical step in reasoning, then, that I do not know when exactly I was born. What I do know, however, is that a woman named Hizuki Nishizumi adopted me from an orphanage in Kumamoto Prefecture at 1.13 a.m., on the 13th of October, 1966. I don't know how old I was then, but I don't think I was more than two or three years old.
That assumption places my date of birth at somewhere in the early sixties. Before the population laws were put into effect the decade later, there were still many undocumented births to either underage or otherwise incapable parents. I can only assume that I belonged to one of those categories. Either way, there was no record of the start of my life, before I was given to the orphanage.
Of the orphanage itself, I have little memory. I do not exactly remember my life there, however, on the various occasions I have taken the time to visit, I am struck with an odd sense of nostalgia. The building is no longer home to the orphanage anymore, and a hospital has been built within its halls, but as I walk from room to room I find it easy to imagine what kind of place it once was.
I was taken to the residence of the Nishizumi family, in the same Kumamoto, later that day. The woman named Hizuki Nishizumi did not have any children at the time, nor was she able to. From that day on, she was to be my mother.
My earliest memories of the residence was that it was quiet. Compared to what I must assume was the hustle and bustle of many children housed under one roof, my new home was most peaceful. There was no noise, no screaming and yelling. Even walking was done quietly, with a soft gait. The residence itself is still unchanged from my childhood - the same rooms, the same paper washi screens, the same tatami mats, the same pond in the garden, the same tranquility.
I passed the first few years of my life in relative peace. I did not have to work for food, or shelter. All of my needs, as well as a sizable number of my wants, were provided for - all in all, it was an idyllic existence in my opinion. However, there was a marked lack of interaction with my mother, who was the one who traveled to the orphanage, adopted me, and brought me home. Most of my early childhood was spent with my father, who had - as befitting tradition - married into the family.
Later I would wonder why my mother chose me, because she expressed so little interest in me after that. But I soon learned that wanting a child and loving it are two different things.