Grant Lee

“Miss Fumiko… hey…” A voice sails toward me through the still air of the little palliative care unit. Miss Yoshie. She has been in hospital far longer than I. Despite our many months spent together here since my arrival, this is our very first conversation. I can tell her strength is fading through her meek tone, yet her voice carries a wistful airiness so delicate that it could be lost in the wind. I tilt my head towards her in hope she somehow knows I’m listening.  

“Do you remember… that cosy flower shop on the corner?” Miss Yoshie takes a pained breath. “Tucked behind the Family Mart?” 

“Ah, of course, being there felt like my second home. It was beautiful, I truly loved it,” I reply, fighting through infernal aching and a melancholy utterance of guilty invocations in my mind. 

Miss Yoshie lets out a laugh that barely seeps through the polyester curtain separating us.  

Like myself, she hasn’t had visitors, minus the regular line-up of doctors accompanied by their entourage of nurses. I could only assume that she too would face the end of her story here.  

When I was first admitted to hospital, it was clear Miss Yoshie had already been there for many years. Her eyes were fixed on the view outside, lost in reverie. Back then, I wondered what could have been so fascinating about the city I’d seen countless times before. Now, I understand the sanctity of observing fragments of the outside world; the scarce vestiges of freedom which remain.  

What drew me, however, was a terracotta pot on her bedside table. Sprawling out from it were specks of larimar blue interspersed with cream white. Its petals were modest and unassuming, yet those colours were unmistakable—it was a Forget-Me-Not, my mother’s favourite flower. She always loved things that possessed a subtle elegance.   

“It was a magical place… I still remember the way the twilight sun illuminated that garden, while that kind lady gifted me the knowledge to start my very own. I used to visit every second day… before things became like this.” Despite the weakness of her voice, the strength of her memories remains firm.  

“I miss it so very much.” 

The next day, I wake to find that I lie here alone. 

I bid her a silent farewell, and a prayer for a more merciful life in the next. For years, I’ve been condemned to suffer within this prison, deceptively named ‘Kyoto City Hospital’. 

Ivory walls suffocate me, leaving me at the mercy of a fate I never asked for. 

I stare out of the window knowing that I’m peering into a mere fraction of the world. This thin slice of glass taunts me. 

Swirling white strands glide across the azure sea, above the bustling city. Collections of vast and towering buildings litter the area. Stalls boast fresh produce and delectable street food; their owners call out to weary pedestrians.  

All are echoes of my former life. 

It wasn’t always easy. My office was subjugated by a self-entitled micromanager who clearly overcompensated for his lack of hairline with a surplus of beer-gut and emotional abuse. There were battles hard won, while hunched over the computer keyboard or during stagnant meetings. Those were the days I used to wish away. Now, I wish for them back more than I could’ve ever imagined.  

Why must fate now conspire against me? To deny me life’s simple pleasures? I’m so tired. I just want this fight to end. A nurse scrambles into the room. She freezes, before rushing out to alert one of the nearby physicians. I allow an insidious coldness to lull my body into numbness. I should be glad of another ‘death’.  

I lament over the knowledge that I have been led to believe in a future which never was to come. Where once I may have been the warrior, now I am the deer, left to bleed atop a pile of tattered petals by the hunter’s arrow. Who is guiding Fate's cruel hands with such ruthlessness? Have I not been toyed with enough?  

Please, just let me fucking die. 

My vision returns. Oddly enough, I’m upright, my hospital bed nowhere in sight. A young woman places ceramic pots onto a shop window. A slight smile creases her face as she certifies that the plants are healthy. A more mature voice calls out to her. She stands elegantly from behind the counter. Her onyx bob sways above her shoulders. Crow’s feet line the outer ends of her eyes, ‘signs of a life well lived,’ as she would always say, for they allegedly came from smiling often. I’m unable to stop myself from smiling, joy ricocheting between us, our faces lighting up together, rivalling the glow of the rising sun.  

My mother. My okaa-san. 

“Fumi-chan…”  

I haven’t heard that nickname for years. It’s always “Fumiko-san,” “Miss Nakano,” or “Oi, you.”  

As she saunters over to me, I am captivated by a terracotta pot, housing bundles of pastel blue flowers. Every tiny petal basks in the sun’s radiance, each resembling fragments of a tranquil afternoon sky.  

“What’s this, Fumi-chan? Has one of our plants caught your eye?” I nod, with a smile now invading my face.  

“Ah, a great choice. That specimen is what we call a Wasurenagusa. The Westerners call it the ‘Forget-me-not’. It’s said that these flowers reflect a promise made,” she adds. 

“What kind of promise?” I ask. 

“Why, a promise to remember, of course! To remember the preciousness of the moments we share, long after they’ve passed us by.”  

My mother used to teach me how to best maintain various flowers we had in stock. She was always ecstatic to bestow lessons upon anyone willing to listen, and I, for one, was more than happy to learn a thing or two about the beautiful garden she called her world. 

“One day, you should try raising some of your own. There’s nothing like nurturing something living with your own hands, and a plant is certainly easier than a pet.” She chuckles at her own quip, and I laugh with her. Not because what she said was particularly funny, but because I love her so much that I can’t react any other way. 

Having to relive this moment has made it impossible to ignore how much I miss her. When she left me, I watched her garden wither away with her. This hallucination is a taunt. A cruel trick the universe has played on me. I refuse to remain its plaything. However much I yearn to return to the past, I’m not that woman anymore. I don’t think I ever will be again. The time to make a life for myself is behind me now.  

Perhaps it’s okay to let go. 

I’m returned to the hospital bed. It’s quiet. My eyes lock onto the doorway close to me. Somehow, it seems to be much closer than it used to. As I sit up, I swing my legs, so they hang from the side of my bed, before finally letting my feet drop to the cold linoleum floor. The chill shoots through my lower body like a javelin, and I begin hobbling toward my destination. I manage to reach Miss Yoshie’s bed. The bedside table is empty; the pot that once sat there is gone. However, a set of crutches lies slanted against the bedframe. I prefer to believe Miss Yoshie wanted me to have them for my journey forth. This way, I’d be able to take a part of her essence with me, wherever I go.  

The door sways outward. The hallway outside is empty, for once. I still remember how it was the day I arrived; the chaos of people rushing around like salmon up a river. Scanning the hallway, a green door grabs my attention. On it, the word ‘courtyard’ is plastered in giant white text. A nice spot to take a rest. A far better spot than my damned hospital room, that’s for sure. 

The rhythmic clack of the crutches against the floor echoes down the corridor, as the vermillion evening hue caresses my face through the windows nearby. The more I venture further from my hospital room, the more my strength wanes. I push through the sudden trembling which ripples through my arms, as the air in my lungs refuses to stay in for long. I strain as I haul myself toward that door, before finally throwing myself at it. 

I’ve made it. My eyes reel as the brisk wind stings them. My gown flaps about wildly. I plant myself onto a wooden bench with a heavy thud. I gaze across the courtyard, before stopping at a trio of small pots near my bench. Bundles of vibrant sky-blue spring out from each one. Looking closer, I notice an inscription etched into each pot. ‘Nakano Family Florist.’ With a soft laugh, I shut my eyes.  

“Okaa-san, tadaima.”