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remember this: A group of girls rescuing kittens abandoned in the forest on the outskirts of school. The girls kept the kittens in the English teachers’ small, crowded room. Between classes, they ran to the box where the kittens huddled, cooing out loud, holding each kitten up. The kittens wriggled when held, made tiny sounds from perfect pink and o-shaped mouths. Tiny as teacups. I pointed to them one by one. Small, smaller, smallest, I said. Kawaii, kawaii. So cute, each fragile neko-chan. The next morning, the kittens were dead, their small bodies limp and still. The girls picked them up again, one by one, bending deadkitten arms like Gumby dolls. Kawaisō, they say. Kawaisō. Such a pity. Such a shame. Didn’t anyone FEED the cats last night? I hissed. Mr. Mura, the head English teacher, shrugged. Shō ga nai. It can’t be helped. The girls raced to class, then returned to the teachers’ room afterward to stroke the dead kittens’ stiffening fur. Kawaisō, they cried, their voices falling, melodic, flute-like. Small deaths. Like travel. As natural as a waterfall. I ................................................................................ ...
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