Harakiri Y Seppuku [patched] Today

Us. The old man felt the word like a splinter. There was no us anymore. The samurai class had been dismantled, its bones ground into the dust of a rebuilding Japan. But Kazuo’s father had been the last sword-bearer to Lord Tokugawa’s grandson. And Kazuo had been raised on stories.

Kazuo closed his eyes. The garden was silent except for the distant clatter of a tram and the cry of a crow. He opened his eyes and picked up a brush. With swift, certain strokes, he wrote: harakiri y seppuku

“Forgive me, my friend,” he said.

“He also runs a sword through a straw target every morning before dawn. The noodle cart pays the bills. The sword keeps him alive.” Kazuo looked back at the chrysanthemum. “He will not miss.” The samurai class had been dismantled, its bones