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Halley’s Flower

By Satoshi Iwai From Issue No. 8

In November, the shadows of the street trees grow thinner day by day. The face of the daytime moon looks wearier hour by hour. I feel as if I had an uncle who had traveled all around the world. He often told me about his love affairs with a lot of women. One day, he headed for somewhere to find the hottest love on earth and never came back. All he left in his apartment is a tiny pot in which a flower bud is about to open. I take the pot to the flower shop on the dark, empty street, and ask an old clerk what kind of plant it is. Standing by the dark, empty showcase, she tells me that it is the loneliest pistillate flower on earth that blooms only once in seventy-six years. When the clerk turns her face toward me, I notice that she is totally blind. Her eyes are as hollow as the daytime moon. I feel as if I could hear a lullaby for all bees which are mortal in November.

About Satoshi Iwai More From Issue No. 8