2006년 7월 31일

On Sunday, near dusk, our father's train pulled into the station. A light rain was falling and the windows of the train were streaked with water and soot and all we could see on the other side of the glass were dark shapes moving. Then the train came to a stop and a small stooped man carrying an old cardboard suitcase stepped out of the last car. His face was lined with wrinkles. His suit was faded and worn. His head was bare. He moved slowly, carefully, with the aid of cane, a cane we had never seen before. Although we had been waiting for this moment, the moment of our father's return, for more than four years now, when we finally saw him standing there before us on the platform we did not know what to think, what to do. We did not run up to him. We did not wave our hands wildly back and forth and shout out Over here! to him. And when our mother pushed us gently, but firmly, from behind, and whispered, Go to him, all we could do was stare down at our shoes, unable to move. Because the man who stood there before us was not our father. He was somebody else, a stranger who had been sent back in our father's place. That's not him, we said to our mother, That's not him, but our mother no longer seemed to hear us.

He put down his suitcase and looked at her.

"Did you..." she said.

"Every day," he replied.

Then he got down on his knees and he took us into his arms and over and over again, he uttered our names, but still we could not be sure it was him

----------------- Julie Otsuka