Memento
o00o
I was on the train next to this woman, probably around 60 or 70, white hair with a pink tint and unmistakable vivid green eyes. We had a long train ride from Suna to the Leaf so I struck up a conversation. Old people usually have amazing stories, especially the old ninja that fought before the great time of peace and advancement in technology,
She told me she was in fact a ninja back in the day but was long retired from active duty though she sometimes still helps around the hospital. She told me with a grin, that she was a recently retired head of medicine. She had some amazing stories of missions she had been on, life in a ninja village, and other antidotes of the past. I spent the first two hours berating her with question, I like to think I would a top notch ninja if it wasn't a dying profession.
We finally get to topics of the present, she told me she was visiting her daughter in Suna, who had married the 5th Kazekage's daughter and was the current head of medicine in Suna. She had three kids, all active within the Ninja profession but she was sad to see her only daughter leave the Leaf.
We spoke about the Leaf and Suna for a bit before I finally commented on something that eating away at me all day:
"That's quite a racy book to have"
She looked down, as if forgetting its existence. "It is the newest installment, I bought it at the shop in the train station earlier today for my husband before I remembered he was dead."
I couldn't bring myself to respond or I didn't have one. What can a person say to console a loss to a stranger? I began to say what everyone says, what this woman has probably heard a thousand times: "My condolences..".
She smiled and thanked me for my empathy, even if it was an empty phrase. We sat quietly for a moment, the woman looking down at the brightly colored book. She clutched it in one hand while the other traced the noisy cover. Her reprieve was broken by a passing thought I began to voice: "Why did you…"
She turned to me before I could finish: "I kept it because it reminded me of him—his insatiable and incredulous reading habitat— he would have loved the new book."
I looked down again at the noisy cover of the highly perverted series, it read Icha Icha Passion.
Whatever blush I was wearing from bringing up the book faded as I looked back to this woman, who so obviously missed her husband. Even, from what I assumed was a somewhat annoying reading habitat of her late husband, to see her look so fondly at it made my heart squeeze. I could only hope to one day love a person like she had.