A pendant full of memories, found during the year-end cleaning, reminded me of my mother...

#nana56b


Lines from the story

One day in December, as Christmas drew near,
I found a worn pendant inside a small box tucked away in the closet.

My brother and I were elementary school kids when our frail mother bought
it for us at a festival night market.

Now the plating is peeling off, and several glass beads are missing, but
I never could bring myself to throw it away.

Looking at it, old memories came flooding back.

The nearby bakery we often visited with Mom.

We always bought just one bag of the 300-yen ones, tucked away on a corner
counter in a brown paper bag.

Cream buns, red bean buns, jam buns—all with their fillings spilling out.

Melon bread with a strong burnt crust—the bag was always packed full of
rejects like that.

“Mom, they still had bags with all kinds of different ones in them!”
My brother brought it over, grinning.

Leaving the shop, she told us quietly, almost sadly, “Don't you dare raise
your voices inside the store.”

I vaguely understood what she meant.


On Motherless Christmas, we emptied our two piggy banks and bought two
strawberry shortcakes.
When we asked for two candles too,
the lady at that shop said, “This is your Christmas present,”
and gave us a chocolate bar bigger than the shortcakes.
Like that, I clutched the pendant and remembered the past.
Then, tears spilled out.

The house where I lived with my late mother is gone now, but I wanted to
see the scenery one more time.

I made my way to that place.

That bakery was gone too.

I wanted to say thank you.

I took the pendant out of my pocket and stared at it,

and I started crying again.

A strong wind blew through the gap between buildings, sending small,
withered leaves dancing into the air.