Letters from a Homesick Heart

A man misses his lover.

            The people here are almost as ridiculous as the people at home.

            While I am glad that the Caucasian influences in my appearance don't draw any familiar or special treatment, I do not appreciate the stereotype laid down upon me. Here, I don't know the English I speak so well, at home I am not Japanese at all. It astounds me that a group of people can share such ignorance even with an ocean between them. But it can't be helped.

            You never looked at me one way or another. I am just “Aki.” Not “Mr. Higoshi”, or “Akinori.” To you, I am not the strange, giant “half”, or the odd white man with the Asian eyes. Just “Aki.”  I miss that more than you can know.

            Despite this setback, this country is not too bad, though the skies are a little too wide for comfort. I have always been a city man, and our city is so very crowded. Ah, but you would love the places I have seen. The mountains here aren't obscured by smog and the sea of buildings. The hall I performed at the other night has a piano that you would love, and made me wonder why this program accepted the violinist without his pianist. But every song I have played so far, I played for you. I am glad that my favorite, your favorite, your song has not been part of the concerts. It would probably tear my heart out if I had to play any part of it. My ears would bleed should any fingers but yours grace the piano.

**

            Rachmaninoff's Rhasphody on a Theme of Paganini has a special place in my heart. It reminds me of you, always of you. I let the notes wash over me and through the cramped space of the dark green subcompact I have rented for my stay, and try to focus on the road ahead. My heart screams to be home, but home exists across a seemingly unconquerable ocean, thousands of miles out of my reach. I glance at the ribbon of beach outside my window and to the agitated water beyond, twisting my lips. As I return my attention to the road and ignore the flood of homesickness, I turn up the cheap speakers and let the orchestra sing for awhile.

            I wish you were here to hear it, too. Though, if you were here, I would not need this music to remind me of you. I know it is your favorite, and you, not Japan, are my home.

            I sigh and swing the car away from the tempting beach, away from the reminder of what I am missing, and around a curve that should take me back into the city. My shoulders are aching and my legs, long even in this country, are threatening to cramp, so I pull off at what they call a 'scenic outlook,' and bring the tin can I am driving to a stop. The orchestra falls silent for a few seconds before the track repeats, skipping a little at the beginning. I frown and thump the dashboard as if that will help it, irrationally angry for the interruption of the recorded piano.

            I sit back in my seat instead of getting out into the gloom of the overcast day, distracted by the piano. It speaks softly over the speakers, trickling out note after note. This is flawed, so flawed, compared to your performances. Your soft, delicate pianist's hands always coax the purest sound from the instrument, and always play my skin as well as any set of ivory keys. It has been a month since I have seen you, touched you, and I want to go home.

 

**

            Tomorrow.

            I get to leave this place and come back to you tomorrow, finally. It has been one month, six days, and countless hours since I left. This experience was a good one, but next time, I will refuse to leave you at home. You can be there for the concerts, the interviews, and the endless stream of touristy things that were so empty without you.

            You can suffer the early morning, hand in hand with me.

            Ah, but I found something amazing for you. You'll love it as much as the piano. I will not tell you here, because it would ruin the surprise. I just hope you like the feel of cool silver against your skin. Ah, that might have ruined it.

            My dear, I am more than ready to board my plane, and cannot sleep for the excitement of it. I have done all I could: I took a hot shower, raided the mini bar, and just tried simply to sleep. But I can't. The people in the rooms next to mine complained when I tried to play a few songs, no matter that I know the instrument is tuned and in as fine condition as when I came here. I suppose two o'clock in the morning is late for such things.

            So now I sit and write.

            I'm coming home.

Author's Note

This is another of my stock from college. It is wildly different from what I usually write. I'm not looking to ever get really serious with this piece, so don't mind mistakes or how, well, over the top it is.