This poem quietly portrays the evening of Mother’s Day, delicately capturing the warmth of family and the preciousness of ordinary life. It begins with the unexpected visit of the youngest daughter, followed by the wife’s delighted smile, a shared family dinner, and even the small errands after seeing their daughter off. Each seemingly ordinary event is filled with affection and a deep sense of comfort. The poem reveals how the bonds of a family, strengthened over many years, live naturally within the details of everyday life.
“Mother’s Day and Our Youngest Daughter”
In the evening, our youngest daughter came.
I had almost given up,
thinking her Sunday work would make it impossible.
Then the doorbell rang.
When I opened the door,
she stood there smiling.
My wife was lying on the sofa,
saying she felt chilled.
When I told her who had arrived,
she greeted our daughter with a radiant smile.
A Mother’s Day gift was placed in her hands.
“I just received one the other day,” she said, delighted—
a transparent excuse,
as if she had forgotten that today was Mother’s Day itself.
Watching the Grand Sumo Tournament,
my wife cheered with joy
when Takayasu Akira won.
Then Hōshōryū Tomokatsu injured the sole of his right foot.
He could barely stand
and needed assistance to leave the ring.
Halfway up the hanamichi,
he turned back and walked alone toward the dohyo.
The spectators were already preparing to leave.
He stopped
and bowed once to the ring.
In that gesture,
he revealed the pride of a yokozuna
and the dignity of a sumo wrestler.
This morning’s news reported his withdrawal.
In that young man’s quiet courtesy,
so different from his fierce face in the ring,
I saw his humanity.
That night,
the three of us celebrated Mother’s Day together.
We savored my wife’s home cooking.
The unfinished bottle of sake was soon empty.
The chilled white wine disappeared as well.
For dessert,
our daughter brought éclairs and tea.
There was still time
before the last bus.
As I walked her home,
it was a rare moment for just the two of us.
I saw her to the subway ticket gate.
On the way back,
I took the underground passage leading to the CO-OP.
Fortunately, it was still open.
To clear my head,
I wandered through the aisles.
At that hour,
the half-price prepared foods caught my eye.
I picked up a pork cutlet.
Tomorrow, I decided,
I would make katsuni.
At a convenience store along the way,
I bought a Snickers.
Chocolate helps
when symptoms of low blood sugar appear.
It happens only a few times a year,
but simply having it nearby
brings reassurance.
When I returned home,
our daughter had emailed my wife
that she had arrived safely.
At the World Table Tennis Championships,
Japan’s women had lost.
As I prepared for bed,
unfinished work on my desk weighed on my mind.
That afternoon,
I had already sent off one manuscript.
But one speaking outline still remained.
There was time before the deadline,
but I could not afford complacency.
Before the ideas faded,
I wrote down my plan.
For some reason,
this became a night
filled with warmth.
Written on May 11, 2026. A sketch of Mother’s Day evening.