Suzuko is not like her brothers, Yakumo. Remember how she would babble when she was in your arms? She is less of a mountain brook now. The high fever that almost took her from me three years ago took some of her away with it. Foster Mother tells me that I have raised only boys and assures me that girls can grow up more quietly. There are days when Suzuko does not say a word. There are days when she does not even look up when I say her name. I remind myself that you were like this as well, that you were often elsewhere. Suzuko is often elsewhere too. I hope that she is not lonesome there, Yakumo.

This house of Koizumi is not the same without you. To deny these changes is to deny that you are the heart of this house.

We have tenants now, Yakumo.

The small house at the edge of the property where the household’s handyman had lived is now rented to a young couple, a department store deliveryman and his wife. The income it brings in is not much, but it does pay for the school supplies for the boys. The royalties from the book by your Elizabeth pays for their private school tuition. The royalties from all of your books, Yakumo, take care of their other needs. Mr. McDonald—Kazuo and the boys call him by his full naval rank “Paymaster Mitchell McDonald, U.S.N.,” after which they always add “Papa’s American friend in Yokohama”—makes certain that the payments are received here in Tokyo, and he does not hesitate to cablegram your publishers in America and in England whenever they are delinquent, which is often the case these days.

We have only one maid for all the household chores now, Yakumo.

Though the same as before, I am the only one who dusts and cleans your writing room. No one is allowed to touch your books, your papers, or your high desk and chair. The oil lamp, the lotus-leaf-shaped dish for your worn pen nibs, the small tabletop hibachi for lighting your pipes, the conch shell are all where you left them. How the maids used to jump whenever you blew on that shell—Pa-wo! Pa-wo!—two extended blasts, as if a steamship were departing from the other end of the house. The student houseboys would laugh and tease them for never anticipating your call. How cross you were with me, Yakumo, whenever I would dispatch a maid to your writing room before you had the chance to Pa-wo! Pa-wo!

I was that maid once.

Of course, I knew when that hibachi had grown cold.

What I did not know was when that seaside memento would cease to fill the rooms of this house.

Almost fourteen years we had together, Yakumo.