The most tragic event in my childhood was my younger sister, Noriko's death.
My mother, Yoko's recent death was easier to accept because she lived a whole life.
Her death triggered and recalled my deep lamentation regarding Noriko's death.
Immediately my thoughts flew back to the time when I was six and a half years old,
and Noriko was a mere three and a half.
She was a victim of the 1943 summer typhoid fever epidemic.
It was my first vacation after entering grade school.
I was very pleased and excited to take a train trip with my family to Uozu,
where my father came from.
Grandparents and cousins, beaches, pine trees, fishing boats and an aquarium.
I loved the fishing port alongside the Japan Sea.
It was only when we arrived that we learned our grandmother was ill.
Much later we found out that she had typhoid fever.
In fact, we had landed in the middle of an epidemic.
Why didn't I pack up and leave right away?
I imagine this thought crossed my parents' minds many times afterwards.
I have a vivid memory of a dark night at the beach.
My mother and I stood at the water's edge bare feet in the sand.
The pouring and pounding of the waves were not far from us.
The tips of the rising waves looked like gnashing white fangs coming at me.
Suddenly I almost lost my balance in the strong undertow that pulled me towards the waves.
I clung to my mother's hand.
My mother and I went to Uozu.
We went to Uozu.
We went to Uozu.
We went to Uozu.
We went to Uozu.
We went to Uozu.
We went to Uozu.
We went to Uozu.
We went to Uozu.
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