Kokuro Yui

I remember kneeling on church pews as sunlight filtered through stained glass onto my hands during morning Mass. The hymn books were thick and heavy in my small hands.

I remember Father's large Bible that smelled like old parchment and cedar when I'd sneak peeks at the illustrations.

There was this bench outside our church where we'd sit after service — cold stone but warm from sunlight — eating melon bread from the bakery next door.

The library had a cat that used to curl up on my feet while I studied scripture.

I remember winter nights when Father would let me stay up late to make dango together in our tiny kitchen. The sweet potato paste stuck to my fingers and we laughed when the first batch burned.

There was a stray orange tabby cat that used to sleep on our windowsill during storms — I'd name it 'Sunshine' and sneak it scraps of salmon.

Every May 5th, Father made kashiwa-mochi for Children's Day… he always put too much filling inside because I loved it so much.

Sometimes after bad dreams, he'd let me sleep in his room where his cross necklace glowed faintly silver from moonlight…