By MIKIKO SUGA
Every summer is a tradition of disappearing. There are times to be corporeal, and other times to dematerialize. It may simply be a matter of traversing impermanent boundaries, where one simply consumes what is in front of them. There is no need to contemplate too deeply, because something is always at risk of breaking if I do.
If there is one thing I feel, it is the heat. Even the invisible ones can feel heat. It sticks to the skin, burrows into the memory; it will endure even as the years pass (and they will) (and they already have).
In the early morning, the cries of the crows echo through the air. One always forgets about the crows; like the few who wander the streets at this hour, they are specters that haunt the empty streets, their shadows flitting underneath the flickering street lights that begin to dim as the sky turns to a soft pink and dawn approaches. I hurry my steps.
The sliding doors open, and the relief floods as the song chimes. Another threshold that marks the passage from sweltering to perfectly air conditioned, from dark streets to bright fluorescent lights. As for me, nothing has changed, but no matter. The shelves are lined with iridescent colors and supersaturated textures, all packaged into uniformity, confrontational yet contained. Meiji chocolate bars, potato chips, rice crackers, yakult, yuzu lemon cider, baumkuchen, cream puffs, matcha parfait, fruit sando. An infinite and unending supply of nostalgia.
One clock has stopped, another has started ticking. The moment that occurs once every day of once every year has arrived. As I walk between the aisles, the infinitely transient moment begins. Maybe, having done this so many times, one embodies their past self that went through the same motions. The onigiri sits on the refrigerated shelf, perfectly triangularly packaged.
The plastic crinkles underneath my fingers. My steps as I approach the register, the small words of greeting I mutter without meeting eyes. 115 yen. Regretfully, I cross back across the threshold and sit on a bench in a deserted park and watch the clouds reflect the approaching sun. After peeling away the plastic one two three, the first bite is so familiar it feels almost painful. The rice is perfectly salted with a slightly floral note, and the nori coalesces with the rice to form a layer of crispness with each bite. The grilled salmon peeks through, its saltiness a surprise that has been rehearsed hundreds of times.
Nostalgia can be consumed, memory can be packaged into a singular onigiri, ready for sale.
I remember the previous summers that I spent looking for something, the realm to which I disappeared for a season like I never existed in either world. I remember indulging in this very ritual, day by day, summer by summer. Maybe the fact that I still come here means that I am yet to find what I set out for. What am I looking for? Why do I come back and go through the same motions, over and over again? As I try to remember, I forget. The childish wonder returns and then fades, and all that is left is the dawning sky, the heat, and the salmon onigiri.
I consume the last bite, and with it, another chapter spirals into remembrance. My solitude adopts another texture, scent, taste. A bitterness lingers, something is left unfinished, but the craving has been satisfied.
Maybe I’ll come back in 24 hours. Tomorrow night. Next summer.
Writer | Mikiko Suga ’27 | msuga27@amherst.edu
Editor | Toby Rosewater ’28 | trosewater28@amherst.edu
Artist | Evelyn Chi ’25 | etchi25@amherst.edu