The Cicada’s Cry

The train rushes along the remnants of the old river. Buttoned up sararimen sway and grimace in the afternoon rush hour and tiny school children in white pith helmet-like hats amble on and off the train at every station. They all look full of life and darkness, all with jet hair and smooth cheeks. I lean, tired, on the door and eventually disembark at a little busy station in the suburban commercial borough of Koganei. The Tokyo eventide slams me in the face with all its heat and perfume. I cross the platform, down the stairs, and pass through the gates like one of a million complacent cattle. From the station I make my way past the sweatshop drone of the pachinko parlor and gradually into a more verdant territory, lined less with ramen shops and parked bicycles and more with family homes and trees. It’s here that they catch up to me, those old cicadas.

continued on scribd.