Yoshi perched for a long minute atop the garden wall, catching his breath. “Your wall seems to have grown taller,” he said to Madame, when he dropped over the top.

“The gate is no taller. You are fatter, and I am glad to see you so happy in marriage,” Madame said from her seat upon the veranda.

He smiled broadly.

“I am happy indeed. Please come and honor us with a visit soon. We are parents of twin boys!”

At Madame’s encouragement, I stayed with Yoshi and Eiko a month. Eiko had no mother on either side and needed help. Madame herself could not stay away, and continued her regular inquiries after the family long past my visit.

Eiko had come through the birth strong and the infants were well and comparably fat, for twins. I had little experience with children, but Madame soon fell into a grandmotherly affection for the creatures. It rather awed me to see how such a strict, formal woman could alter in the presence of new life. But there was still much I didn’t know about Madame Sato.

She bathed with the babies, slept with them and yielded them to their mother only when they demanded to nurse. Something urgent and spiritual seemed to possess her at these moments, and I marveled at this transformation—this brave, even heroic support of new life.

I had no memory of my mother. Had rarely even seen any mother nurse a child. And for the first time in my life, I watched the demand and the stress those infants imposed upon Eiko with some surprise and almost horror. And yet, father and mother’s mild submission to the burdens of two helpless tyrants seemed near endless.

Having lived much longer and experienced much more since that time, I can say with some confidence, there is nothing in this world more mundane than human birth. And yet I feel it equally true that there is no earthly thing more miraculous—maybe one thing: that both parents should survive the ordeal with the child. That is an extraordinary miracle. And yet most people managed it. I held that truth with some bitterness, even after practicing carrying it lightly for the better part of my life.

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Yoshi and Eiko were happy. And in spite of the abundance of that emotion, I was sure I would never share with them, I was unthreatened by their happiness. I was happy for them.

My last evening with them, I busied myself, preparing dinner, and then with tidying the kitchen. Finally, I seated myself, slightly apart from the family on the tatami around the kotatsu. I watched as long as I could, and listened while Yoshi sang in his low bass to wife and children.

At length, I went quietly out of the room to ventilate the feelings I could not restrain. The night was dark. And a narrow scythe of a moon seemed to stretch across the sky, penetrate my chest and hook around my heart.

Where was my mother? Did she have any thought for me now? What had she endured to give me life, and for no better purpose than for more suffering? Had she truly loved my father? Did their love have so little to do with me that I should be so destitute of the same?

The scythe moon seemed to tug my heart until it penetrated and the blood ran out and flowed into tears. Gradually, a unique sensation of warmth grew and enveloped me. The moment was as close as I had ever felt my mother, and though subtle, its influence lingered, and steadied me.

When I let myself inside again, Yoshi had fallen asleep above his bowl of wine, but he roused when he heard me re-enter.

“You are going tomorrow?” he asked.

I nodded.

“It is well you have found Madame Sato. She will help you find your people.”

I reached for the lamp to extinguish the flame.

“My people are long dead now.”

Yoshi started. “How do you know? Unless you heard it from one of your own?”

I blew the flame and the room collapsed into darkness, well to screen my emotions still so near the surface.

“The message did not come from one of my people.”

“Who could he know except you could call him one of your people?”

I could not answer this. What did I really know of my identity? Ansei had never revealed even my family name. And what did I know of Ansei’s origins, really?

“Your Madame is shrewd. She will help you find the people who matter now.”

“Good night, Yoshi,” I said, tracing my fingers along the bare wall to the door of the bedroom.

“Remember us when you have found them,” came the quiet reply.

Well had he asked for my remembrance; he was not asking for his own sake. I learned shortly thereafter that Yoshi had been conscripted to mandatory military service.