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you teach eijun to play the guitar at ten, small fingers on heavy strings, the delighted ring of his laughter a counterpoint to the clumsy melodies picked out between your four hands. he takes to it fast, so much your son in ways you would never have imagined before he was born, your chest going tight and warm with pride. your wife laughs and calls you noisy, kisses you both on the cheek with the same gentle exasperation you fell in love with years ago, when you knocked your drink off the table on your first date because you couldn't stand how lovely she looked by candlelight.
maybe, she says, he'll be better than you someday, and you could burst at the thought. wouldn't that be something, your little boy with his name in lights, standing on the stage his old man couldn't reach. he could make it, you think, smiling at the way his eyes close as you ruffle his hair, the sleepy tilt of his head. he could do anything.
you let him go at his own pace, the growing deftness of his fingers a balm for your dreaming heart. each new thing he learns is a wonder of life, the sunshine glow of his smile a daily miracle. you watch him chase beetles in the summer, humming little snatches of tunes you taught him, tunes you wrote, and if your eyes are a little wet, no one needs to know. he's your boy, skinned knees and lungs like a lion, and he knows faster than anyone that he's going to take on the world.
your father teaches him to fish the next year, sliced fingers keeping him off the guitar for weeks at a time because the rules are simple in this family: you catch it, you clean it. he's so proud, presenting his mother with his basket of fish like it's a bouquet of flowers and she's so pleased it may as well be. you may not be a rock star but you have this: your wife singing softly in the cozy warmth of your kitchen, the smell of fish cooking, eijun squabbling with your father over a game of shogi.
he's a small earthquake, long fingers and bright eyes and the loudest laugh you've ever heard. when you left for tokyo you swore you'd never come back to nagano or this farm and you'd been wrong. now you're glad you were because this is where he should grow, green hills and fresh air and tender shoots to teach him how to love.
the first time you take him to a baseball game is the quietest he's ever been, eyes as wide as saucers, lighthouse lamps for his heart to beam out of. dad, he says, cap askew on his head as he turns to you. i don't want to watch anymore. i want to play. i want to pitch.
you look at the shine on his face and think, oh. you recognize that look, the burn of discovery and brand new passion under his skin, the mark of something he'll love for the rest of his life. you think about the guitar you got him last year sitting in his room and the song you started writing for him last week and you smile.
sure, son, you say. let's go get you a glove.