To travel to northern Japan by Tohoku Shinkansen, I remembered, find track 12. There, a line of twenty people, all wrapped tightly in winter coats of navy and black and grey, stood. I knew I was boarding the right train when I did not hear a word.
Our Shinkansen’s confidence soared as it reached 200 miles per hour. The windows offered impressionistic views of puddles in Fukushima, then flurries in Miyagi. The crisp scent of snow intensified. As the train cut through marshmallow snow, it glided, as though on ice skates.
When the jingle announced Morioka Station, my heart shivered with a long homesickness. As I alighted the train, I looked over my shoulder at Mount Iwate. In the pale light of that winter afternoon, I could see its crown of ice flicker.
I then climbed aboard a bus of fifteen passengers to Kosaka Town. This bus was a much slower journey, much quieter somehow. The only sounds were the crunch of the wheels against the snowbanks, a muffled cough behind a cotton mask. In the gathering darkness, the bus windows cast our shadows upon the frosted cedar trees.
At last, our bus arrived, and I steadied myself down the stairs into the knee-deep snow. Three years since I had been to this shrinking home of five thousand. Four thousand now. The driver pulled my suitcase from the bus’ underside and gave it back to me, gently, with gloved hands. For balance, I pushed my suitcase into the snow and looked up at the waiting townspeople.
The headlights lit their faces, framed by scarfs and hoods and clouds of warm breath. I began to recognize the twinkle of familiar eyes as the snowstorm changed. What were their names? Should I bow, shake hands, or hug? I waded through the snow towards the people I once knew, pointing with one hand at the gathering rush of the snowflakes.
I have lost so many words, I thought. In Japanese, there are words for this snow. I once knew them.
Hana fubuki, I remembered aloud. Flower snowstorms.
The snowflakes fell like blossoms as we called out names we had not spoken in years.
