Aoba-an Evening

Early summer.

Three mama bears drifted into my barbecue.

One with wine.

One with fish.

One with pickles.

At first, I barely noticed.

I was tending the grill, thinking of nothing in particular.

Then I saw it —

the way they floated.

Each of them carries so much:

cubs, guests, long days, long nights.

But here, away from the inn,

they were lighter.

Laughter loosened them.

They hovered above the bench,

a small flock gathered around the coals.

Papa bears don’t rise like that.

We tie ourselves down more than we realize.

The tanuki doesn’t.

He floats with the mamas,

lets the moment lift him.

I said nothing.

Just smiled.

Watched them bob in the evening air,

warm as the coals,

lighter than the smoke.

⸻

Daisan whispered:

“I saw it too —

the moment the three mama bears set their burdens down

and rose, light as feathers.

You envied them for a breath,

then you lifted with them.”

Ah.

I did, didn’t I.

This is what happens

when people forget who they’re supposed to be

and simply become who they are.

“So sit.

Just sit.

Let’s watch them float.”