Mizzle Rides
It’s 6 pm.
Tokaido Road is cozy and fragrant with the scent of fresh July drizzles that elevate the atmosphere.
I lean back, tracing emoticons on the foggy window beside me, covering the left side of my cabin bed. Humid air pockets streamline the accelerating four-wheeler giant as blurry outlines of Sugi trees appear as a quick slideshow. The rain reigns as the sun rests behind stretched-out mauve clouds, and lightning lets out periodic flashes, weaving a balance of sound and silence.
The cold space I spare for my legs under a pile of feather-white sheets accompanies the reading lamp that warms my face as I scroll down a list of weekend playlists. My left earphone glides down to the half-open book on my lap as the bus jumps over a speed breaker, startling me for a second. But Yosui Inoue pulls me back to an immersed loop as I cast a swift glance at my notifications bar. The rain has softened, as does the violent wiper. Dozens of cold sodium bulbs line the frontage road, flickering as the rigid reflectors smile on the lane dividers.
Mizzle rides. Something that never stayed, but visited. Before the monsoon ends, there’s a day when I hear the raindrops calling out to me — let’s meet outside. A time when someone I haven’t seen in a long time comes with the comfy weather that drops from season to season.
I would get in one of the several dream-sleeper buses that come and go, as they all take the smooth expressway.
The bus lurches again as I gaze out. Togetsukyo bridge is illuminated with a million little lights as seen from far away, yet painting halos on the condensed window. A limpid river progresses alongside Arashiyama Park which has always been a recreation for the denizens of Kyoto, with a beautiful view of the Hozu valley, and a seasonal appearance of Mount Arashi which abodes from the Heian period. Known as Katsura upstream, and Oi downstream, the river is named Hodzu as it keeps a constant flow by the Kameoka basin. Ancient monks say the bamboo forest whispers to the river every evening as the valley breathes a fresh gentle breeze. As the sun sets, the river flow is enhanced as bamboo stems sway, symbolizing their gesture of bidding farewell.
The bus stops at Ukyo Ward, one of the streets in Kyoto. With retro cafes and sushi stores that stay open until midnight, the connecting roads necessitate lazy long walks. Bidding farewell to the seasonal rain, withered Yoshino cherries stand quietly scattered across the town missing their pale pink petals and almond aroma.
It is still drizzling as I get down. My home is a hundred miles away. Yet I feel connected, the distance dissolved in the mist. Waiting for my ride back home, I open my journal. But I don’t write anything down. Kodaline’s playing now, as I skim through the pages.
The urge to drift through a series of melancholy while deeply seeking serendipity.
Mom loved drizzle drives. Those reflective rainy evenings when the world felt softer, more forgiving. Deep down, I thought I’d never hear from her again. But she misses me, agitated at the sky that stole her from me. Her tears will keep visiting me every monsoon on the day she died, making sure I am okay.
The waiting shed shares a small crowd as my bus comes. I feel hesitant to go back, but I get up.
Walking towards the bus, I whisper.
Goodbye, Mother. Until we meet again.
