A Most Moist Matsuri [祭り]
In which we hide under temple rooftops and eat noodles
It’s the rainy season except when it’s not which is almost every day aside from matsuri day.
So now, as school closes and we walk past a the dream of yakisoba in the air, we have to wonder: is this our destiny?
The rain comes down big and heavy. The stalls sag, the tents sag, the plastic seating and tables do their best imitation of a sag. We have umbrellas and an iron will. Or the boy does. Ignorance is bliss, and the idea of a Kakigōri could propel him across the globe no matter how many times you explain that ice and rain together can only be a sad time.
And so we do what we can. Umbrellas in hand. Wellies on feet. Puddles inside.
Everyone running the stalls that came out today are de rigueur and so they are here hidden under their rooftops getting on with things, occasional glances fire out from under the rooftops but they know the deal.
The boy says hello bringing what sunshine he can. Well, he says ohaiyo (おはよう; good morning!) even though it’s six p.m. I keep telling him that’s for the morning and he keeps not caring.
The yakisoba lady does her thing happily. The rain doesn’t make a dent in the dream prep here. It cannot penetrate the thin plastic box. It doesn’t know how to undo a really tight elastic band.
And so we find what shelter we can beneath a small roof protecting the statues of passed children. And we stand in front showing off our dreams. Looking out from under the awning into the wet temple, seeing the rain drip on down relentlessly. Looking at the children not crawling over the stones in the garden. Not running around waving balloons. At the adults not searching for seats to sup on.
The negative space of the matsuri doing what designers dream of. Giving us space to breathe. To feel our destiny. To be de rigueur.
