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Iroha doesn’t know how she feels about summer.
She reaches into her bag with a sigh, placing a carefully arranged bouquet under her arm, and digs around for the hand towel she’s almost certain is supposed to be in there. Her car keys are there, and so is her wallet, and there’s a couple polaroid photos she had forgotten to put up on the corkboard back home, but no hand towel. Its disappearance is as mysterious as it is frustrating, but she’s not entirely surprised. They always seem to start going missing, around this time of year. She’s sure it’ll pop back up somewhere during the winter.
Still, she’s sweaty. The air shimmers, thick and heat-wave hazy. She wipes the back of her hand across her brow, and grimaces as she tries to flick away the sheen of moisture it leaves behind. Desperate at this point, she searches around in her bag again. House keys, the branded half-stick from their hike, a felt velvet box, some incense–
“Oh thank God,” she murmurs, fingers closing around an old, unopened pack of tissues almost desperately. She peels off the label, grabs a handful, and wipes them across her forehead, then her neck, then her arms. She crumples the used tissues up in her fist, then grabs another handful and wipes this one down her face. She smacks her lips once she’s done, mouth twisting at the salty aftertaste left behind. It’s a little gross, but certainly not any worse than she felt before.
Iroha usually doesn’t know how she feels about summer. Right now, she’s fairly certain she hates it. Still, there’s things to be done—she’s not baking under the sun for no reason, after all. She hoists her bag up onto her shoulder, grabbing a bucket and ladle with one hand while the bouquet goes in the other.
The cemetery is quiet.
It usually is, to be fair. It’s not exactly a place Iroha expects to be noisy, that’s for sure. Barring those possessed of sufficient passion—or sufficient melancholy—mourners are not a rowdy bunch. Case in point, the place isn’t empty. A handful of bowed heads peek overtop the granite monoliths and polished gravestones surrounding her. A few of the heads whisper. A few of them say nothing. A few of them shake, choking back sobs or failing to. She tries not to look at any of them. Not even the ones that seem happy. Grief is too personal to intrude on. Too personal to observe.
Once she’s closer to her destination, she stops at one of the spigots scattered around the place. She kneels, setting the bucket in front of her and the bag at her feet. The rusty metal of the handle squeaks and squeals and groans, and the sound of water rumbling through the pipes feels loud and angry, at least compared to everything else. She stares, the stream from the spigot flowing steady and strong but still slow enough that it’s not entirely opaque. It’s a little like a peephole into a different world. One that warbles a little at the edges, and where colors are a little muted, and where she imagines sound is off-pitch and strange. It’s a fun little thought to have. She entertains it until the bucket is about half-full, then stops the flow of water.
Her father’s grave looks the same as it always does.
Iroha sets about the process of cleaning the grave up. She scoops some water from the bucket with the ladle, dumping it over the dustier spots. She repeats this process a few times, realizing halfway through that the water is splashing against her slacks. She sighs, but doesn’t bother with doing anything about it. They’re black slacks. A couple of water stains will hardly be noticeable. The sweat rolling along the back of her neck reminds her the heat will probably dry them up quicker than they can really become a problem.
Once she’s satisfied with the rinse she’s given the grave, she pulls the last wad of tissues out from the packet and gives it a wipe-down. She’s a little embarrassed to be using disposable tissues for something as important as cleaning her father’s grave, but she decides it’s less embarrassing than leaving it dirty. She wipes, folds them over once, wipes, folds them over again, and wipes one last time. She tries to make sure she’s not leaving behind any scraps of soggy tissue after she’s done. She squeezes the damp mess in her hand over the grass, then shoves that and the two other used bundles into the packaging, wrapping it up tight and putting it in her bag to throw away later.
She grabs the incense and some matches from her bag, lighting a couple of sticks and crouching down to place them at the foot of the grave. The bouquet finds its place next to it. She makes sure to fluff the whole arrangement out a little, so that all the flowers show. She puts her hands together and her head down, offering a quick prayer. A couple walks behind her, murmuring in quiet tones, shoes clicking and clacking against the stone path. Their gazes don’t linger.
Iroha waits, after her prayer. She’s not sure why she does it, but it feels appropriate. Like she’s giving her dad time to tune in. He must be busy, after all. So she waits.
“Hey Dad,” she says, quiet enough that it barely travels. “It’s been a while.”
Iroha’s knees ache, so she kneels down from her crouch. “A lot has happened since the last time we spoke. A lot more than I thought would happen, to be honest.” A laugh rumbles in Iroha’s chest. “I considered coming here sooner to tell you, but I figured that I might as well let the whole three-hundred-sixty-five days pass. Just in case something happened at the last minute that I’d need to add.”
A small breeze kicks up, and Iroha lets it sway her. “Kaguya is back. Back in a body, at least. It took a little over ten years, but your daughter became the inventor of the most advanced android body ever built.” She closes her eyes, soaking in the relief brought on by the wind. “Technically, this also makes us one of the most advanced prosthetic companies in the world. As Director, I make a tidy sum off of the commissions that have started rolling in.”
She snorts a little, mind dancing between memories. “Kaguya’s a little upset she’s not the main breadwinner anymore. Mostly because it means she can’t just offer to pay for things I can’t afford anymore. She said it made her feel like she was contributing. I assured her it wasn’t necessary.”
‘I kissed her silly for the sentiment, though,’ she doesn’t add. She can keep that one to herself.
“Yachiyo is back too. It’s been… rough. Oh, she’s fine, to be clear, but it has been eight thousand years since she had a body. She keeps trying to stay up for 52 hours and then wondering why she feels so horrible.” Iroha locks her fingers together in her lap, trying to contain the restless energy coursing through her. “You might wonder why she needs to sleep if she also has an android body, but, well…”
Iroha looks around, making sure there’s no one around. She looks back at the grave and waves her hands in the air. “Surprise!” she whispers excitedly, a giggle bubbling from her lips. “We actually… we got them both real bodies again.”
She sighs, throwing her head back. “It was… it was way easier than it really had any right to be. If I’m being honest, I felt pretty horrible about how easy it ended up being. The moment we managed to make contact with the moon, everything was basically done. No protests, no fuss, no muss. Just a spaceship at the top of Mt. Fuji with the power to give Yachiyo and Kaguya bodies. I’ve been going insane trying to understand the mechanics behind it, especially since I said I didn’t want any help, but it’s been… fulfilling. A neat puzzle, if nothing else.”
Iroha’s face twists. Her head swims with a dozen emotions she’s not sure she wants to name. “I keep wondering how much sooner I could have done this, if I’d just thought to contact the moon first. I keep wondering if that might have even been the right choice. I have… I have Kaguya and Yachiyo now. Would it have been better, if I only had one? Would it have been better, if… if they were never given the chance to exist as themselves instead of a combination of themselves?” Her fingers clamp together again, knuckles going white. “Would the lunarians even have listened, if I hadn’t gone through all this effort for Kaguya and Yachiyo before asking them for help? Would I have…”
Iroha ponders, for a moment. She lets herself get lost in the summery haze. “I wouldn’t have the same life,” she says surely. “I don’t know what it looks like, if things go differently, but I don’t think they go like this, and I… I think I like this. I think I really, really like this. I like the way I’ve turned out, and I like the way I’ve grown closer to everyone, and on some level I even like the hardship I’ve gone through. I like the person my hardships have turned me into.”
Her fingers unclench, hands tingling as the blood and feeling returns to them. “Mom is smiling more, you know? I don’t know how much that has to do with me, but I… I guess it wouldn’t be horribly arrogant of me to assume that it’s a not-insignificant portion. I’ve been happier too, ever since we started getting along better. Not to mention that everyone’s always telling me how… how lucky, or how glad they feel to have me in their lives.” Iroha chuckles disbelievingly. “Me! It’s a little crazy, but I’ve… I’ve been trying to believe them.”
She pauses, trying to think of what else to say. “Akira’s been doing good. He and Noi are gross. Not that I can judge, but I feel like it’s gotten worse recently. Even mom's been noticing.” Iroha grimaces. “I’m definitely a hypocrite for saying that. Yachiyo, Kaguya and I have been… insufferable, honestly. Yachiyo is so used to being invisible that her filter has almost entirely disappeared, and all it’s doing is making Kaguya feel like she can get away with removing hers, too. I love them so much, though. Enough that I’m not even sure if being gross is something that upsets me anymore.”
Another pause, dragging on a little longer this time. Iroha’s hand drifts into her bag, idly moving things around. House keys, half-stick, felt box, car keys, matchbox, office keys, wallet, makeup. “So much has changed, Dad. I’ve changed so much, but so much of it has also just been… going back to the way things were. To loving music, and to loving my family, and to loving… life. To loving.” House keys, half-stick, felt box, car keys, makeup. “I’ve gotten stronger—strong enough to… to be happy. Strong enough to fight for my happiness. To have fought for it every day of my life for the last ten years.”
House keys, half-stick, felt box. “I’ve gotten weaker, too. I don’t know if I could handle being as lonely as I used to be, back in high school. I don’t know if I’m willing to lose everything I’ve gained.”
Half-stick, felt box.
Felt box. Velvet felt box, heavy as lead but far, far more expensive. Wine red and soft to the touch.
“I don’t know if I’m willing to ask for more,” Iroha whispers gravely. She twirls the box between her fingers. “There’s not a single version of my life I can see where I don’t want to spend the rest of it with them, but it still feels… It feels so selfish, even though I know almost for a fact that they’d say yes. To want more, when I’ve been given so much already.”
She stares at the bold strokes of her father’s name, etched deep into the gravestone. She traces them with something like reverence. She’s supposed to be a mourner, but she feels herself more a supplicant right now. “Is this how it was for you, Dad? I don’t think I remember you being afraid of much… I don’t remember much of you at all, really. But is love just so… so undoing, that you’d unravel in the face of it too?”
The air shakes. The wind blows. Somewhere not so near and not so far, the old pipes of the spigot rumble and groan. Sweat drips down Iroha’s neck. Her fingers clench around the box in her bag.
“Is love so wonderful, that I want to do it even if I’m afraid? Are they so wonderful, that I wouldn’t mind unraveling for them?”
The rumbling of the pipes stops. Steps against stone, off into the distance. The world, which had seemed like it was shaking just a second ago, settles. Iroha’s chest rises slowly, humid air filling her lungs. Her shoulders sag when she lets it out.
Her father’s name stares back at her. It looks gentle, and kind, and something about the curves of it feel like a smile she should recognize.
Iroha stands up, making sure to grab the bucket and ladle as she does. She takes a moment to shake the feeling back into her legs. The incense stick is burning, sending a wispy strand of smoke into the air. The bouquet is a pop of brilliant color against the flat tones of polished granite behind it. Everything is quiet.
Iroha bows, low and slow. “I’m sorry for the poetry,” she says with a smile. “But thank you. Thank you for listening, and for helping me, just as you always have.”
Her father’s gravestone offers no farewells. The smoke from the incense waves goodbye in its place.
Iroha walks away feeling lighter than she has in weeks.
She deposits the bucket and ladle back at the entrance, exchanging polite goodbyes with some of the temple staff on the way. Free from the shadowy embrace of the cemetery, the heat slams back into her, oppressive and obscene. Iroha’s phone buzzes, and when she looks at the screen there is a new message from Kaguya.
‘hurry up slowpoke!’ says the message. There’s a blurry image of her and Yachiyo at the beach flashing matching peace signs. Yachiyo has a crab in her free hand. ‘also say hi to ur dad for me!!’
Iroha’s smile stretches so wide it feels like it hurts.
‘Say hi to Roka and Mami for me,’ she answers. ‘Be there soon.’
A pause. ‘I love you. Both of you.’
Iroha doesn’t know how she feels about summer.
The air shimmers, thick and heat-wave hazy. She breathes in, her lungs filling with fire and her back pooling with sweat. She leaves the cemetery behind, a mountain full of sleeping souls. The sun shines overhead, radiant.
Kaguya answers. It’s a picture of all four of them, huddled together and just barely in frame. Kaguya and Yachiyo are making a heart with their hands at the camera.
‘we love u too!! but hurry up anyways!!!’
Iroha laughs.
A breeze flutters the water-speckled hem of her slacks. The sky is blue, and clear. Kaguya and Yachiyo are waiting for her. Always, always for her.
Maybe there’s something beautiful to make of summer yet.