Love, Decided, in a Split Second

Realizing, that she, was the one for him, translated…

That evening at supper, my seven-year-old son asked me, “Dad, why did you marry mommy?”, I’d, replied, “because your mom’s a great cook”, and, I’d, hurried my son to finish up his final specks of foods in his bowl.  My son didn’t prod any further, I’d wondered, where did his curiosity came from?  And, as I’d, brushed him off like that, could it, have an effect, on his view of family and love later on in life?  I’d silently, looked over at my wife, she was, focused on the foods on her plate, not seemingly, to care about our conversations, but, she’d, caught my gaze, she’d complained, “Didn’t you just call me a great cook?  Then, finish up your food, you’d always left a lot of food, and made me finish it all!”

Although, some people have certain degrees of requirement toward their spouses’ cooking, but, being a great cook had never been, one of the characteristics I’d looked for in mate-selection; but, the question from my son made me bashful, so, I could only, give him a politically correct answer.  Actually, before we wed, I’d not had a meal cooked by my wife, I’d only seen her buy her foods.  Anyway, what made me made up my mind to marry her, was in that particular instant.

committed to one another, not my photograph…

There would be the developmentally delayed children with the cookies they’d made, selling them by the intersections, and, based on my observations, most adults would shake their heads at them, then, moved swiftly across the pedestrian cross. Back then, she was still my girlfriend, she’d, stopped, and took money out of her purse.  I’d made fun, “You kept complaining about your weight, and yet, here you are, buying more cookies”.  She’d replied, “they looked delicious.”, I’d not paid it any heed, until Mid-Autumn Festival of the following month, I saw the mooncakes from the hotels, and asked if she’d wanted to buy them?  She’d shaken her head no, with the reasons of she feared getting fat.

I couldn’t understand her logic, like she’d done everything, based on her whims, this sort of a woman is too emotional, and I, am somewhat, macho, I’d, not, needed to, comply to her on everything.  I’d wondered about what to do?  And, we’d, past that intersection where the developmentally delayed children were selling their cookies, she’d gone, and bought two more packs.

I’m slow, sure, but now, I’d understood, where she was, coming from then.  As we crossed the roads, I’d asked her, “You didn’t really want the cookies, did you?  You’d pitied them.”  She’d returned immediately, “What’s so pitiful about them?  Everybody is making a living, using her/his own ways, they’re, JUST like any of us.”

like this???  Not my photo still…

At the moment, I’d thought I’d, angered her, but couldn’t help, but start laughing, because it’d dawned on me, how stubborn, how persistent this woman was.  Her beliefs shamed me, and, it’d, awed me at the same time—she knew, that the greatest weapon was, taking pity on someone, and, she’s, with a lot of empathy, a good woman.  The reason why I’d, laughed in secrecy was because I’d, found me a gem, and, felt compelled, to hold her close to me for life.

Naturally, as we married, when I switched tracks, she’d, listened to me talk about my troubles, and, not judged me with the money I’d brought into the household, we’d saved up all we could, in the end, we were, finally able to, buy our own little nest together.  I never saw her waste any food, nor see her buy anything she didn’t need, just saw, how she was able to, make those, amazing dishes, with her tight budgets.

And so, it’d seemed, correct, that to say, that I loved my wife’s cooking too, it’s just, that this simplistic answer, perhaps had, demeaned just how precious she truly is to me.

So, this is on how closely the man had, observed his wife when they were dating, and, it’s her kindness that made him fall for her, and this love that started with this sort of a mutual respect for each other, is bound, to last.

My Second Aunt’s Peppermint Chicken

A dish, made, with a TON of love, translated…

Mom called to ask, if I wanted some peppermint?  “Of course!”, I’d hung up my cell, and, my second aunt came to my mind.

Mom has two older sisters, the closest was my second aunt.  My second aunt married off close to my grandmother’s house, and lived their lives, as hardworking farmers with my second uncle, she’d often used the spare time she had after work, and carried bags and bags of homegrown produces, rode the night trains up to Taipei; her appearances would always cause all of us to holler so loudly, and, those homegrown fruits and vegetables had helped save a lot of money for my parents, who aren’t really that well-to-do.

薄荷雞 的圖片結果marinating the chicken in mint…phoot from online…

One summer, mom took me home to visit when I was in the elementary years, I’d wandered around, there were, fowls kept at the front of the field.  And, suddenly, a red-faced duck came toward me, half-crazed, bit down tightly on my skirt, I was so thrilled I’d started crying loudly.  At which time, my second aunt came out of the kitchens with her cooking spatula, and “shooed” off the ducks, at the same time, trying hard, to comfort me who was already, flustered and freaked out.

The aromatic scents came from the house, it’d, made me forget about the scare I just had.  “So aromatic, what are you cooking, second aunt?”  “I’m making peppermint chicken for you guys”.  I’d entered into the kitchen, saw an assortment of yummy dishes, on the tables, it’d made me, drool.  Her way of showing us the hospitality was, kept getting the foods from the plates, into our bowls.  I’d smiled and told her, “Enough, I can’t even see the rice underneath now!”, my second aunt told me, all of these, are simple and plain dishes.

Later, I’d learned that it takes a lot of preparation, to make a peppermint chicken.  Once we’d arrived at my second aunt’s early, my uncle said, “Your aunt went to harvest some mints at the fields, she should be returning soon.”, a short while later, my second aunt came in, with two large bags of mint, seeing us, she’d, swiftly, picked enough mints and washed the leaves, and, killed a rooster swiftly, and, set up the stoves, to start cooking the garlics, the chives, then, started, stir-frying the mints.

My second aunt salted the entire rooster, then, stuffed the rooster’s inside full of the stir-fried mints, then, she’d, started, cooking the rooster.  As the fire crackled on, she’d kept turning the chicken, to prevent it from burning, she’d become like an octopus, working on other dishes as well.  As the crispy mint chicken was plated and served, I couldn’t help, but get the mints out of the stuffing, and stuffed them into my mouth, and, it was sweeter as I chewed.  My second aunt immediately ripped off one leg, placed it inside my bowl, with love flowing from her eyes.

媽媽打電話來,問我要不要薄荷草?「當然要啊。」放下手機,我不由得想起二姨。 圖/...illustration from the papers…

After I married, I’d lived closer to my mother’s home, every time as she was going to visit my second aunt, she’d always called me up, “Your second aunt asked me if she needs to make the mint rooster, she’ll make one for you.”  “Of course,” I’d exclaimed excitedly.

Many years later, I’d not felt right, troubling my aging aunt, I’d said, “just the mints would be fine”, I’d cooked by my aunt’s methods, but, I could, never quite make the mint chicken like she was able to.

This day, I’d recalled my second aunt, working in and out of the kitchens, I’d, lifted my head toward the skies, said to my second aunt, “Thanks for making your, amazing mint chicken for us!”

Because this family member had, prepared the food with such great care and love, that, was why those who were served it, loved it, and, this is probably why, the writer couldn’t quite, make the same dish like her aunt had, because, her aunt had, cooked with care, concern, and love with them in her mind…

Steamed Eggs

Connected, by our favorite food item, translated…

After the stroke he’d had, after long-term in recovery, my father started, regaining his lost strengths back again.  But, his damaged brain was like the cracked eggshells, can no longer be repaired.

Thankfully, he’d still, remembered us, and had recited the name of everybody in the house over and over again, and at the end, he’d playfully added, everybody’s fine…

In order to make a perfect bowl of steamed egg, it takes more, than beating the egg, and adding some water to the egg mixtures, you’d still needed, to filter the egg out, in case there were air bubbles in the process of beating the egg, causing there to be holes as the steamed egg was cooked.  But, if you’d needed to get every single dish you make proper cookware, then, there wouldn’t be enough space in your kitchens, and you wouldn’t be using the items you’d bought but a handful of times per month, and so, as we’d made the steamed eggs, we’d, done away with the filtering process.

But, I’d still loved the smooth and soft steamed eggs, especially the kind that’s served with the Japanese meal boxes, inside a tea cup, scooping it up with the small spoon that’s provided, there were mushrooms, chicken, shrimp, clams, with a colorful tempura as décor on top.  This sort of a steamed egg has the stock of fish with every single bite, and, the foods would, slid down into the throats, making you want to keep on having more, and, in a very short time, you’d, finished up the entire cup of it, then, you’d started, on the rest of the delicacies on the plates.  I can only recall how my mother, my older sister, and I would head out to have these special meals.  A meal like this wouldn’t be costly, but, it’d cost over a hundred dollars more than the regular boxed meals, my father who’s known to save up every last penny wouldn’t eat it with us, but, he’d always, taken us out to have these Japanese meals, and, if we brought him along with us, then, we’d, needed to, put up with his soured face through the entire meal, like how we’re, eating our last suppers, or, we’d watched him, frowning, as he’d, selected the cheapest items on the menus, and it’d, made us all ashamed, and lost our appetites.

In order to fulfill my own desires of having steamed eggs, since the elementary school years, I’d started, making it for me.  The steamed eggs I’d made, had so many pores that it’d resembled the rocks being eroded by the oceans waves.

Back then, the supermarkets weren’t huge on foreign foods, and, there weren’t many international people who are working here like today, Thai, Vietnamese, as well as American style foods, we’d needed to go to certain restaurants to have it.  And, the sorts of condiments we have at home, is the black soy sauces, or the cooking oils, the salts we’d gotten, at the farmer’s markets with the food vouchers.  Even those eggbeater, it’d become, this new “toy” that surfaced into our home later on, but was, soon enough discarded, because it took too long to clean it after use.

Using a pair of chopsticks, beat the eggs, add some water, beat it a couple of times more.  The chopsticks making the clinking noises, as we’d, sped up the beating of the eggs, listening to that, we know, something is going on, it’d made us, proud, and, for the final touch, a pinch of salt for seasoning.

Because I’m the only one who’d wanted this dish, so, I can only use the produces I can get, the chicken and the mushrooms, I couldn’t get, the fish balls, I have NO clue where I can buy from.  The proportions of the egg, water, and salt, I go by feel, like the last time I’d made it, my family said it was, too salty, then this time, I’d, add a little less of salt, if the last time, they’d told me it wasn’t, savory enough, then I’d added a little extra salt this time.  Even the water used to steam the eggs up inside the electric rice cooker, I’d gone by my feel, thus, I’d always either added too much on the inside of the cooker, not enough, the eggs I’d steamed were usually always, scarred and holed, like the uneven roads, the colors didn’t spread evenly enough, and, there was, that white in the light yellow too, and, there was, that layer of bluish gray, like a bruise, it’d tasted, hard, and awful.  Although, I could never get it just right, my mother had, allowed me to try it again and again, and again, it’d saved her the energies, to come up with another dish, and besides, someone always finishes it at the end of the meals.

In my middle school years, I’d, stopped, going into the kitchens, and, even for my suppers, I’d needed to study late at the schools, so, I’d, bought the packed meals at school.  Until I’d gone away for college, and returned home only on the weekends and holidays, and I’d just, needed to, get served my meals, and every now and then, I’d, insisted on going out with friends to dine too.  I’d started, cooking less and less on my own.

蒸蛋 的圖片結果the kind that’s served in a Japanese restaurant…photo from online…

I’d gotten used to the heavy flavors from eating in the restaurants, and felt, that the foods cooked at home were, tasteless, and I’d, just, carelessly taken a few bites, then, put it down, I’d never considered, from my mother’s angles, how much she’d, put in, to make these meals.  My mother allowed us to be, she’d stopped cooking the foods we didn’t like, and in the end, she’d made the foods that I liked, and, bought the items ready-made, because I’d returned home, once every long while.  The Japanese shop we’d gone to when we were still younger had, closed for business, plus, we can now, get the tasty steamed eggs from the 24/7 marts.  And, that sense of cherishing became like the egg mixture, with too much water added, too diluted, to be cooked into stable form, and, that imagination I’d had toward growing up also, became like the air bubbles at the surface of the beaten egg mixtures, stiffened, as it’d gotten, cooked by reality, became porous.

Until two years ago, my father had a stroke suddenly.  That was during the New Year’s, and that New Year’s Eve became, the last time we’d spent together, JUST the two of us.

From the moment my father was rushed into the E.R., he’d fallen into a coma, and, I’d tossed and turned, on that temporary bed, put together with two plastic chairs, a way too small blanket that couldn’t cover up my toes which were growing cold, and my shoulders either, I’d slept uneasily throughout the nights.  Each and every time I’d awakened, I’d watched my father, deep in his sleep, I’d felt, comforted, glad, that he was finally, able to sleep quite well.  And, my father would always start laboring at the crack of dawn, if there’s no household chores, he’d gone for his long morning walks, and, in the noon hours, he’d used his arms as a pillow, and stayed by the side of the bed, wouldn’t allow himself to sleep too long.  At night, if there’s something we’d needed, we’d given him a holler and he’d, wake right away, with no looks of fatigue, like that soldier ready for duty, flipping over, waking up, to fight the battles of a war.  But, his enemies, are the hardships of life.

the less extravaagant kind we make at home, photo from online still…

That day, he’d slept for a very long time, sometimes, I’d felt that sudden scare from my imagined feelings of safety, gone up to his face, made sure he was still breathing, then, curled back into my plastic chair, kept waiting again.  Over a little more than ten hours, my father finally woke up.  I’d recalled that he hadn’t eaten for a long time, after I’d gotten the okay from the doctor, I’d grabbed my purse, rushed to the food court in the basement of the hospital, I’d, walked around the shops, kept worrying that my father may be weakened from not having enough food for a long time, and worked hard, to think of what kinds of foods are soft and easy to chew, as well as, nutritious too.

At which time, I saw that steamed egg at the cafeteria.  Opened up the steam basket, the steams came to me, suddenly, I was like that Japanese fairytale character, arrived to the shores that I’m on, without much time I can waste.

I’d taken the steamed egg back to the room, propped my father up on his bed, with a small spoon, fed him, bite by bite, watched him, like my deceased maternal grandmother had, grinded the steamed eggs down, then, swallowing the bites, and, he’d become, in a daze, after he finished just half of the servings, he’d told me he was full, and, I’d tried, to get him, to take a few more bites.

That was, another father.  Like the man whom I’d watched sleeping, but, he was, no longer the exact same man.  In his dreams, his troubling thoughts were, with the egg mixtures added in, originally very thick, and it’d now, become, diluted, with that lighter yellow, like it was, just formed.

I’d put down the steamed egg, pulled a tissue, to wipe his lips off, carefully asked him who I am.  He’d called the first two characters of my name, and, he could only, vaguely recall the vowels from my last, and, confused, spoken aloud a couple of words that sounded like it, and, I’d felt bad, having to keep on guessing it, I’d just, smiled toward him, then, helped him lower himself onto his pillow, to continue finishing his sleep.

After that stroke, after the long and arduous recovery, my father slowly, regained his physical strengths.  But, his damaged brain became like the broken eggshells, can no longer be repaired.  Thankfully, he’d remembered us all, would recite our names several times a day, and at the end, he’d always added, “everybody is fine” playfully.

After this long, I’d started making the steamed eggs again.  Still using my chopsticks, making the loud noises, with my father hooraying me on, then, we’d both laughed, that I was, just, showing off, that it wouldn’t affect the taste one bit.  Then, I’d added, some stock, or the fish soy sauce to the mixtures, and the rest of the sides depended on what I have, sometimes, it was the diced up chicken pieces I just bought home, and, I’d prepared some mushrooms too.  With the egg and the other food items mixed in proportionally, I’d placed it into the rice cooker, added half a cup of water on the outside, and, not long thereafter, the steam rose from the electric rice cooker, and although I still can’t make my steamed eggs silky smooth, but it’d tasted delicious just the same.  Because it had the holes, looked fluffy, some of the times got condensed into it, one attached close to the next.

We’d used our rice bowls to eat, without that atmosphere from the Japanese food shops, but, it’d tasted, about the same.

So, this, is the foods you shared growing up, and it’d become, this connective memory that you and your families have together.  This still showed, how we often connect with the foods we enjoy, making it for the ones we cared for and loved, because that, was how love was shown to us when we were growing up too.

Lunch Date, Between a Parent & a Child

Translated…

My daughter goes to a private institution.  After she’d entered into middle school, she’d been busying, attending the cram schools, to better her grades, only on weekends, were we able to find the time, to get together.  On the eve of Mother’s Day, she’d texted, said she’d wanted to head to the close by brunch shop, so we can have some mother-daughter time together.

During that time, she’s busying on the skits, the national English exams, with a lot of hard homework assignments, I’d been busying, drawing and teaching too; we lived under the same roof, but, with the distances in between us growing greater and greater, and our conversations from day to day were reduced to, “had you any food?”, and “good night”.  And, if I’d inquired about her grades, then, the originally quiet evening would become, stormy.

There were, so many things I’d wanted to ask her, I was so excited, I’d only slept for five hours, and got up, started flipping through the photos of her as a child, riding that bicycle through the town of Yilan, eating each other’s shaved ice, catching the lizard at the hiking site, plucking flowers from Yangming Mountain………there was, this sense, of realness, in her foolish and playful looks.

I’d then, clicked at my daughter’s postings on FB one by one.  In her teenage years, she’d gotten taller, her face became longer too.  There was, that lack of innocence in her long face, with that hint of stubbornness added on; there was hints of maturity in her taller, but still childish body now, and, there’s, that habitual frown between her eyes as she’d buckled down to study.  And, her wise eyes, are still, the brightest stars that I can ever see.

When she was younger, I’d often, started kissing her face and hugged her.  This sort of unplanned, unasked for show of intimacy, is the best way to show love between the members of the family, and, although she’d carried that disgusted look, and pushed me away, but, compared to words, bodily contact helps me express my love toward her.

補習,只有周日我們才有機會悠閒地聚會。母親節前夕,女兒傳了封簡訊,表示想前往住家...from the papers…

We’d arrived to the location of the gathering early.  My daughter complained on how she’d had some minor misunderstandings with her classmates, how hard it was, for her to keep up in her drama club and class work, and which soap she loved.  We’d talked about how we were doing, as her mother, I’d felt, a bit, nervous.

She’d picked up that coffee, that we wouldn’t allow our kids to drink, and, started sipping at it in my dumbfoundedness, stated how good it’d, tasted, then, pushed her soup to in front of me, to share with me.  Sharing the foods, it’d helped the flow of words along.  As I’d thought back to last night how I’d, flipped through the photos, time is moving in the now, but, we’d, kept reminiscing over the past.

The alarm from her cell came.  My daughter checked in, and took a selfie, and photographed the omelet in her plate, shared the foods she was having with her friends.  And, I can only, set up her photo like I was, doing a tarot reading.

“Stop playing on your cell phone.”, it was, as if, I was, voicing out my barely audible complaint inside a cave.  Because, the answers that came to me were, “just a second”, “I’m almost done”.  My daughter was right in front of me, reachable in physical distance, but, her mind was, totally, controlled by that small device.

My daughter’s right hand was answering the texts, and used her left hand, picked up the pepper shaker.  Suddenly, time had, stopped, the needles got, spilled onto the tables, floors, and, there were, toothpicks, all over her omelet.  She’d, picked up the wrong jar.

As we’re on our way back, we’d laughed as we recalled how that silky smooth omelet, became like a porcupine.  She’d told me she wanted to come again, because the fillings in the omelet, mushrooms, ham, and cheeses, were more than the omelet itself.  

I’d, rained on her parade, and told her she can have a “date” with her cell phone the next time.  She’d not minded, and got really closed to me, said, in a playful way, “Let’s have a special lunch date, with my specialty, porcupine omelet.”

She didn’t understand Taiwanese, she’d not heard the female owner of the shop, while she’d picked up after us saying, “Such wasteful manners, how wasteful!”

So, the two of you had a special lunch date, and, this is going to get harder and harder to plan, because your daughter is all grown up, with her own friends, her own life to live, and, there’s, not that much time, that the two of you can share those moments of intimacies the two of you used to that often or easily anymore…

Having problems, being too comfortable, but knowing, that this, isn’t what a marriage looks like, a Q&A, translated…

Q: My Husband Didn’t Want a Divorce, and I’m Used to Having Him Around Too

Jen is close to forty, she’d been married for a little over a decade.  She worked in sales from before, she’d earned some money, but not as much as she thought she had; the reason being she’s very helpful, in order to climb the ladder fast, or to help make the bottom lines, she’d always loaned her money out, and never asked for the money she’d loaned out back.  Plus she’d enjoyed going out with her coworkers to dine, and she’d always, picked up the tabs.  In no more than three, four years’ time, she’d accumulated over two million dollars worth of credit card debts, and she’d stopped working, and just, dodged the collectors, in the end, it was her mother, and older siblings who’d, paid up the money for her; she’d sunk into sorrow for about six months, started back up again, worked as a makeup person in a wedding gown shop, that, was where she’d met her husband who is ten years senior, after falling in love for just one year, they’d, tied the knot.

Her husband’s work title was assistant, didn’t make nearly HALF of what she’d made, but Jen thought he was very even-tempered, they’d had a lot to talk about, so, she’d never taken any money from him.  She’d paid for the rent, the utilities in her home, and she was still able to put five, six thousand dollars into her savings.

the importance of love in a marriage…not my photo…

They’d never used contraception since they were married, but, six years after they were wed, they still hadn’t gotten pregnant, Jen wanted a baby, they’d gone to the fertilities clinic, and, the problem was on her husband.  To tell the truth, the health exams had, turned Jen’s view of her marriage upside down, thinking back, he wasn’t at all that motivated in work, didn’t like having sex at all, didn’t have enough energies either, and, this marriage, she seemed to be the only one, working hard, to make it work, her husband had this I could care less attitude.  Jen had had multiple heart-to-heart with him, and he doesn’t want a divorce, and suggested that they should sleep in separate rooms, and encouraged her to go out with her friends more, to live together separately.

But, close to age forty, Jen didn’t want to divorce, nor marry again, she didn’t want to, nor did she, have boyfriends, felt, that although there’s not that intimate connection between the family members with her husband, but she’d gotten used to it.  Would this sort of interactions in a marriage be too weird?

A My Advice

The two of you had been together for ten years, at least, you’re already, used to one another.  So long as the considerations of economics, the loans, and it wouldn’t bring either one of you down, you don’t need to care about what others on the outside thinks.  But, when you get to this stage, where the most basic “function” of a husband and a wife had, ceased to exist, divorce should be easier, why are you, still, holding on?

the binding of a marriage…not my photo

I know, because of convenience, and this woman, had settled, although her marriage can’t give her what she needed or wanted, but, she felt comfortable living in it, that, is why she’d lacked the motivations to change, and this is awful, because, NOBODY should settle in a marriage, whether or NOT they know they’re doing so or not…

The Love that Parents Have for Their Young Never Cease to Exist

On the shows of love that elders have for their offspring, translated…

My mother-in-law who’s ninety-seven years old stopped working in the kitchens already, last month after her fall, she’d become, especially frail, but lately, she’d become, spirited, not only does she go in and out of the kitchens, she’d even told me to get the groceries at the markets that she’d selected.

What, is going on?

Turns out, my husband was recently hospitalized because of illness, and since the day he was discharged from the hospital, my mother-in-law cooked the meals, sometimes, she’d stood by the sink with the help from her walker, mostly, she’d sat in her wheelchairs, giving me the technical supports: seeing if I’d managed to get the chicken essence?  Did I use the right proportions for the four-items soup?  Did I put in some herbs cooking the pork soups?  All of these, are the most fitting items to help her family get better, because my mother-in-law made these dishes a lot from back when, and now she can’t anymore, but because her son fell ill, that dusty box of treasure of cooking got opened up immediately, she’d hoped, that her cooking can get her son better immediately.

like this???  Not my photo…

I’d recalled my great uncle who’s ninety, there was a longan tree with a lot of fruits growing.  One day, his seventy-year-old son climbed up to get the fruits, as he saw, he’d hollered out to him from under the tree, “Come back down, it’s too dangerous!  I’ll climb up to get it.”

This event was treated as a joke by the relatives, and, although as we first heard it, we’d all laughed, but afterwards, we’d felt, something stuck in all our throats.

The assortments of things in the world, all carried an expiration date, only the love that parents have for their young stays fresh forever, no matter how old they get.

or this???  Still not my photo…

So, this is how parents showed their love for their young, isn’t it?  By taking care of them, no matter how old they get, it’s what parents do, doing all that they can, to help make their children’s lives a whole lot easier.

Just Enjoy Bickering with You, the Love Between Siblings

See how close this pair of sibling is to one another, how they related to each other regularly, translated…

Growing up, the way I’d interacted my younger brother by four years was getting into constant arguments with him; but, we’d only, bickered a lot, and not really gotten into any serious fights.  After I married, I’d moved away from my own home, and slowly, my younger brother and I didn’t get enough chances to get together, and, our connections seemed to be held together, by the jokes we’d, exchanged with one another.

we may be like this every now and then…not my photo…

Not long ago, I took mom to Japan, and, we’d gotten the chance to look at Mt. Fuji, and, the two of us couldn’t help, but have a photograph of us together with Mt. Fuji in the background, and naturally, we’d, immediately shared the photo with our groups on LINE, and yet, my younger brother who’d always been insulting said, how mom and I should’ve been outside the frames of the photo, that way, the picture would’ve been perfect, hinted that we had, destroyed the makeup of the photo, and I don’t know whether I should laugh or get angry at him.

Because our hotel is by a lake, so we could have our breakfasts leisurely and watch the scenes, it surely, was one of the best moments in my life.  We couldn’t help, but share it with our families, our good moods, and yet, my younger brother foolishly asked, if Mt. Fuji would erupt?  This was, surely, possibly, because I’d read related reports, that Mt. Fuji was still an active volcano, and it hadn’t erupted in a long, long time, and, if we’re, unfortunate (or blessed) enough to have it erupt, then, we can only, leave everything up to fate.

After he’d read my replies, he’d immediately joked that mom and I go take out some insurances on ourselves, that if the volcano did erupt, he will be coming in with money then.  I’d told him, surely, and that he should, set up the insurances for us, he’d also commented on how I enjoyed looking pretty, that before the volcano took us over, that I’d needed to, pose beautifully before I die, I can’t help but laugh aloud, he’d wanted me to, go from start to finish, going out, beautifully.

but, we’re always going to be like this…not my photo still

The two of us always talked on everything, rashly and calmly too, and we don’t have any taboos over death either, and so, I can always laugh at his jokes, there’s no raining on my parade one bit, instead, it’d, added that extra fun in my ordinary life.

I want to cherish how I’m able to talk so openly to my younger brother about these sorts of things, because we’re, deeply connected, in synch, that was how we’re able to, blurt out what we’re thinking about to one another at the moment.  I guess, I’ll be willing to, have these insults and exchanges with my younger brother for the rest of our lives!

So, this, is how close the two of you are, you two insulted each other, and, nobody feels offended, because you’d gotten, used to this mean of interaction with each other, and this sort of relating to one another must’ve started when you were, very young, that it’d carried into your adulthood years…