My mother died in the spring when I was seven.
It was April, when the cherry blossoms had begun to fall. I watched the petals drifting past the hospital window for a long time. I didn’t know how to cry. I think that, at seven years old, I couldn’t yet accept the death of my mother as something real.
My father said nothing. He simply held my hand and looked out the window.
After the funeral, my father handed me a wooden box. It was old and small, a brown wooden box.
“A gift from your mother. For Hana.”
My name is Hana.
Inside the box were many envelopes. On each one, words were written in my mother’s handwriting.
For the day you graduate from elementary school
For the day you graduate from middle school
For the day you graduate from high school
For the day you fall in love for the first time
For the day your heart is broken
For the day of your coming-of-age ceremony
For the day you get married
For the day your child is born
For the day you remember your mother
My father said quietly, “When that day comes, open it. I promised your mother.”
I kept that wooden box, treasuring it always.
The Day She Graduated from Elementary School
In the spring of my twelfth year, after my elementary school graduation ceremony, I came home and immediately opened the wooden box.
With trembling hands, I opened the envelope marked For the day you graduate from elementary school.
Inside were two sheets of writing paper.
——To Hana.
Congratulations on your graduation. Your mother is right beside you today. I’ve been watching your back all along as you walked to school with your backpack. I’m sure you looked beautiful at your graduation ceremony.
I still remember the day you were born. You were so small, so red, but you cried with such an enormous voice. When the doctor said, “You have a healthy baby girl,” I was so happy, so overjoyed, my tears wouldn’t stop.
The reason I named you Hana is that flowers bloom anywhere, in any season. Even on rainy days, even on windy days, they put down their roots and bloom in their own colors. I wanted you to become a person like that.
In middle school too, laugh a lot. Even when you fall, stand up again. Your mother is always watching.
I love you, Hana. ——From your mother
I cried out loud.
My mother’s handwriting leaned slightly to the right. Neat, yet warm letters. I read those pages over and over, and finally held them against my heart.
The Day Her Heart Was Broken
In the winter of my sixteenth year, I was rejected by the first person I had ever truly loved.
I came home in tears and opened the wooden box. The envelope marked For the day your heart is broken was slightly thick.
——To Hana.
Your heart has been broken. That’s so hard. It really is so hard.
You know, when your mother was twenty, I too had my heart badly broken. Someone I had been with for three years suddenly ended things, and I couldn’t eat for three days. I still remember that pain.
So I understand. Right now, it must feel like there’s a hole in the center of your chest. Everything you see must remind you of him.
It’s okay to cry. Cry as much as you need to.
But let me tell you one thing.
The pain of a broken heart always fades. You might not believe it now, but it’s the truth. And someone who knows that pain can become kinder to others. You can become someone who quietly sits beside someone else when they’re crying.
The fact that you loved someone with all your heart is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a beautiful thing.
Tonight, stay warm and get some rest. By tomorrow, you’ll feel just a little bit better.
I love you, Hana. ——From your mother
That night, I fell asleep clutching the pages.
When I woke up, just as my mother had said, I felt a little better.
Coming-of-Age Day
In January of my twentieth year, after having photos taken in my furisode kimono, I opened the wooden box alone.
——To Hana.
You’ve turned twenty. Congratulations.
The furisode suits you. I can’t see it, but I know for certain it does. Because you look like your mother. Don’t tell your father, but especially around your eyes.
In the time just after you were born, your mother was very anxious. I was afraid every day — could I really be a good mother, could I make you happy? There were times I held you as you cried in the middle of the night, and cried right along with you.
But every time you smiled, your mother was saved. Every time you called out “Mama,” I was glad to be alive.
When I found out about my illness, the hardest thing was knowing I wouldn’t be able to see you grow. Not being able to see your graduation, your coming-of-age, your wedding — I was so frightened and so sad, I cried every night.
So I wrote these letters. At least through words, I wanted to be there with you.
Hana, thank you for living these twenty years. Thank you for staying well. Just by living, you make your mother endlessly happy.
I love you. More than anyone in the world. ——From your mother
On the way home from the ceremony, I cried alone.
Not caring that my furisode sleeves were getting wet, I crouched down and cried. An elderly woman I didn’t know passed by and asked, “Are you alright?” and I said only, “I want to see my mother.” The old woman asked nothing. She simply rubbed my back.
The Day She Got Married
In the autumn of my twenty-eighth year, I got married.
On the morning before the ceremony, alone, I opened the wooden box.
——To Hana.
You’re getting married. Congratulations.
Is he kind? Does he treasure you? That’s all your mother can think about.
I have one request.
When you fight, please don’t be stubborn. Be someone who can say “I’m sorry.” There are things more important than pride. Your mother learned this from living alongside your father all these years.
Please lean on your father. He’s clumsy, but he loves you dearly. Your father cried out loud the day you were born. Your mother has never seen him cry like that, before or since.
Your white dress surely suits you.
When you walk down the aisle, your mother is walking with you. Even if you can’t see me, I’m there.
Be happy. When you are happy, your mother is always happy.
I love you, Hana. I have been looking forward to this day for so very long. ——From your mother
In the bathroom of the venue, I couldn’t leave for a while.
From outside the door, my husband called, “Hana, are you alright?” “Yes, I’m fine,” I answered. I think my voice was trembling.
When I walked down the aisle, my father was beside me. His arm trembled slightly. So did I.
Suddenly, the left side felt warm.
Perhaps it was my imagination. But I turned toward that warmth in my heart and said: Thank you for coming, Mom.
The Day Her Child Was Born
In the summer of my thirtieth year, my daughter was born.
In the hospital room after delivery, cradling my tiny daughter, I opened the wooden box.
——To Hana.
You’ve become a mother.
Remember how you felt when you held her for the first time. That warmth, that weight, that scent. It will surely support you through everything that comes.
You know, when your mother held Hana for the first time, it felt as though the world had changed. So small, yet so perfect — and I trembled with the thought that only I could protect this child.
There will be many hard things ahead. Sleepless nights, nights when she won’t stop crying, nights when you don’t know what to do. But it will be alright. You are already a mother. You’ve already become one.
When you give her a name, please give her one with the strength to live. A name that lets her take root anywhere and bloom in her own color.
Hana.
I am so glad you became a mother. I am glad I gave birth to you. I am glad I am your mother.
Hold her close as much as you can. Put it into words for her. For your mother’s share too.
I love you, Hana. And I already love her too. ——From your mother
Still holding my daughter, I cried.
A nurse hurried over asking, “Are you alright?” but I just shook my head. I was crying and smiling at the same time.
I named my daughter Saki.
The Day She Remembered Her Mother
One last letter remained in the wooden box.
For the day you remember your mother.
This envelope alone had no set day to be opened. I had never been able to open it. Because I felt that once I did, it would truly be over.
In the autumn when my daughter Saki turned five, I was making dinner in the kitchen at dusk and suddenly thought of my mother. Nothing in particular had happened. It was just the smell of frying onions that brought back the memory of my mother’s back as she stood in the kitchen when I was a child.
That night, after putting Saki to bed, I opened the wooden box. I slowly opened the last envelope.
——To Hana.
You remembered your mother. Thank you.
Thank you for not forgetting.
Hana, your mother has one regret.
That I should have told you “I love you” more. There were so many days I felt embarrassed and shy and couldn’t say it. I should have hugged you more. I should have laughed with you more. Because I thought we had time.
Time is something that disappears just when you think you have it.
So Hana, I want to tell you now. Today, tell the people you love, I love you. Even if it feels embarrassing, say it. Whether it’s your father, your husband, little Saki — anyone. Please don’t be lazy about putting love into words.
That is your mother’s last request.
Hana, thank you for reading these letters all this time. I was happy to have been a part of your life, even just a little.
Every time you laughed, your mother laughed too.
Every time you cried, your mother cried too.
Every time you lived, your mother lived too.
Thank you, Hana. Thank you for being born.
I love you. Always, always, I love you.
——From your mother
That night, I called for my husband.
“What’s wrong?” he came out, looking sleepy.
“I love you,” I said.
He looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. “Me too,” he said.
The next morning, I held Saki close. “I love you, Saki,” I said, and she laughed and said, “I know.”
I called my father. “Dad, I love you,” I said, and he was silent for a while, then said only, “Me too.” His voice trembled slightly.
My mother’s wooden box still sits in my room. There are no more letters. But sometimes, when the smell of frying onions drifts from the kitchen, I remember my mother’s back.
And in those moments, the left side feels just a little warm.
As always, it may be my imagination.
But I believe it’s not.
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