TETRA

There is rustling in the tetra forest. Green tea leaves printed on plasticized cartons. I only drink green tea. I will live to one hundred and seven. I know these sounds from everyday. Usually I can’t hear them; just green noise. One of the few certainties I can trust. Bundles of eleven cartons. Only eleven, never more or less. I meant to make bundles of ten. But I miscounted the first time. My mind was elsewhere. The bundle just looked right. It fitted, on the floor in the corner. Had a sense of order about it. A mistake that had been meant to happen. It didn’t bother anyone, least of all me. I hated its lack of spirit and apathy. Too much of a reminder. But before long there were two. Soon there was a line of bundles. Now there is a low wall of them. Another obstacle for me to face and overcome. Someday I will have to fight them. They creep ever further across the floor. Towards my small patch of hard-won space. It shrinks as they grow. I know that one day they may overwhelm me. Without me, they are nothing. They cannot tie themselves together. Can’t stack themselves in tidy piles. Their forms hide the cockroaches. Magnifying the rustling with their emptiness. Hollow like so much around me. Echo chambers for tiny footfalls. Concert halls for insect symphonies. In different times I would relish their company. It is not their footfalls I resent.

Before I started working, I watched feet. There is something hypnotic about them. Few appreciate the attraction of ground hands. There is fluidity in their functioning. Simply breathtaking if properly observed. Adaptable to every challenge that life presents. The toes work together to provide stability. The arch soars above the ground, majestic skin. The heel anchors the body. We are nothing without them. They are always forgotten.

Father’s feet are big for a Japanese. Size 28 is not always available here. He had trouble finding styles he liked. Mother’s are unremarkable, so unfortunately average and forgettable. She could have her choice in any shop.



Sometimes I lie by the door watching. One-eyed through the slit. My left cheek pressed against the tatami. Always the left eye open. I know it’s stronger. The view is more complete if I use one. Father limps, never approaching the door any more. He has learned. Mother brings my food and manga alone. Three meals a day. Six hundred pages a week. Ten toes precede each arrival; two heels follow. Summer skin, winter socks, spring and autumn slippers. All avoid the one blight. The stain on the lemon fresh outer apartment. A single line of dark footprints leads away. From my door to anywhere else. I can only see the first six steps. I assume there are more. They have resisted Mother’s desperate attempts to remove them. Every gory particle clinging to the reed mesh. I admire their resilience. I hope they succumb before I do. No greater tragedy than parents outliving their children.

Would Mother and Father agree? Of course not. They would be delighted. Their only problem would be disposing of me. Very difficult to explain to the neighbours. After all, I left for America. Was it four years ago? Or had a terrible accident. Or went to prison. Or killed myself because of school exam pressures. Just too much for me. Or did I simply vanish, an unsolved mystery. Any of these is better than the truth. For them, at least. Better that I be dead to the world. Not just to them then. They tried once. Two nights after the long Chinese nails. That’s why Father limps.