“Herun-san is only giving Suzuko a suggestion, an early tutorial,” I assured her. “He cannot help but to teach—”

“Saying ‘Aba’ to a newborn is not a lesson,” she objected.

Foster Mother was right, Yakumo. Saying goodbye, even if it was in the singsong prattle of babies, is a self-inflicted curse.

“Herun-san has no plans to travel,” I said to foster Mother, choosing the image for the end of life that seemed most fitting for you, Yakumo.

I doubted foster Mother even more after you made your announcement. She had worried needlessly, I assured myself.

“Waseda University, Sweet Wife!” you declared at the beginning of 1904, the 37th year of Meiji. Your voice was rid of its waver, a moth that had lived inside your throat for months.

“You have good news, Husband?” I asked.

“Yes, good and new!” you answered.

“Tell me, Husband.”

“Only four hours a week, two lectures on English literature every Wednesday and Saturday, and the Waseda’s campus is closer to Ōkubo by jinrikisha.”

“It is very good news, Husband!”

“The dean of Waseda looks like Nishida-san. A good omen. I will invite him to the house, and you will see, Sweet Wife!”

Suzuko, babbling in these arms, decided at that moment to offer you her first word, the same one chosen by her three brothers. We both heard her, Yakumo. You rejoiced, repeating “Aba, Aba” back to her, believing your lessons had resulted in an unqualified success. “Little Suzuko knows her name,” you cooed.

I was silent as Papa and daughter blithely bid each other, “Goodbye, Goodbye.”

When August arrived, you, Kazuo, and Iwao boarded the train to Yaizu. The evening before, you and the boys sang for Kiyoshi, Suzuko, and me a rousing rendition of the national anthem, which you proudly had taught to all of the children when the war had begun earlier that year. Kazuo and Iwao, each with their agave-leaf sword, marched around the room, saluting you in turn. You called them brave and bold like their countrymen who were at war.

“Japan is coming into its own,” you said to me. “Neither the West nor the East can threaten our nation,” you declared.

Japan was again at war with a foreign enemy. First, China was our enemy. This time it was Russia. As with the Koizumi men before you, you found meaning in war. You looked at the list of battles, the ships lost, and the territory won, and you saw the character of a man, of a nation, and of a generation. I did not, Yakumo. I looked at Kazuo at ten, Iwao at seven, and Kiyoshi at four, and I feared for the wars that would come for them.