Shotsuki

October 9th, two days ago, would have been my grandpa's 91st birthday. All through the September of 2003, he kept saying how he wanted to make it to his birthday. He overshot by two days, just to be on the safe side. But that's how he was: stubborn, loud, and true to his word.

The first few months after his death, the pain felt so visceral, so palpable. But after six years, the throbbing has dulled. When I visit Grandma, I often walk through the house trying to relive the moments of grief. I feel guilty, somehow, that I'm able to visit Grandma and smile.

Even though his house has drastically changed, his workshop in the back of the garage remains largely untouched. Even after all the house cleaning and remodeling, no one in the family has had the courage to remove any of the old mechanic's tools.

In his garage workspace, yellowed masking tape labels display his capitalized handwriting. Pieces of fossilized coal in his metal trays keep the tools from rusting. When my grandma sleeps, she still rests on the left-hand side of the bed, an invisible barrier of his territory corralling her to one side. I now know more of his absence than his presence.

Last week, I looked at his photo at the butsudan. It's a picture of him sitting in a chair at an Extended Stay in Fresno. He about 83 years old in the picture. The echo of his voice, the deep grooves on his fingers, the feeling of listening to one of his stories—these weaken with time, and sterile snapshots usurp my living memories of him. That is the treason of photography.

Today marks the six-year anniversary of my grandfather's passing. I missed the Shotsuki service last week, so this is my repent. This is my way of saying that I still think about you...and that I miss you.