Tahei Osamu, called Osi, aged seventy, lived with his nephew and his wife in America. There were no children in the family, but Osi had chosen to live in the mother in law quarters behind the main house, even if there was ample room in the main house. It consisted of only two rooms and a bathroom. The two rooms were the living/bed room and a very small kitchen. Osi had decorated the place in a traditional Japanese style, with tatami mats on the floors and very little in the way of furniture. The nephew, Sogi, worked at a bank and his wife, Mutsu, at an insurance agency. They made enough money to own the home and it was in a relatively nice part of the city. Osi took the evening meal with them and occasionally the three of them sat and talked for a while after they finished eating. Then, gradually the conversation would wane, Sogi would turn on the TV and Osi would excuse himself and go to his little house. Once inside Osi had a variety of things that kept him occupied, including flower arranging, calligraphy, reading, and writing letters to his friend Dr. Emori Kenji in Japan.

One late summer evening Osi was sitting just outside his doorway at a small wooden table. Nearby stood a tall oak tree, its leaves turning, and occasionally one would break off and drift down, landing near him. The leaves were large and fell rather quickly, not at all like the leaves of the Japanese maple, or cherry blossoms, which fluttered down or out on the wind more like feathers. The large oak leaves seemed rather "American" to Osi.

He was aware that, contrary to most such evenings, it was almost completely silent, no cars, no barking dogs or children's voices, no airplanes, no sirens, just the gentle movement of the trees. Overhead the sky was a blue-black, tinged with pink to the west and he could see the first star twinkling in the hazy atmosphere. He sighed and relaxed his shoulders, feeling the silence, enjoying it.

As he came very close to dozing off, he heard a noise. He could only describe it as the sound of rustling silk. He instinctively looked around the yard and there was nothing. He stood and walked to the hedge that separated the back yard from the neighbor's, and strained to see anything through the dark leaves. There was nothing. He sat down and tried to relax again, but he could not. He remembered his injuries during the China campaign in 1935. He was at the rear headquarters, supposedly out of danger, and there was an explosion. A piece of flying metal tore went into his thigh and he immediately began to lose blood. He crawled away from the burning building and eventually fell into a ditch filled with stagnant water. Just before passing out everything seemed to go quiet and calm; he was aware only of black smoke quickly drifting into the trees and then he heard the same sound; that of rustling silk. As he lost consciousness, he transformed this aural hallucination into a visual one, seeing the silk as the long kimono of a beautiful woman of the Edo period as she turned slowly about, her head tilted to one side, her face whitened by powder, her lips red. He had not thought about this event for many years.

It was the young medic, Emori Kenji, who found him in the ditch, applied a tourniquet and undoubtedly saved his life, and it was then that his long friendship with Kenji started. After the war Osi went into the communications field, helping the struggling nation put itself back together, and Kenji finished medical school and became a successful doctor in Tokyo. They corresponded regularly for over forty years. As Osi recalled the experience in China, his thoughts automatically went to Kenji and he realized that he had not yet answered his last letter.

He took out his portable writing desk, found Kenji's letter, and read it over. Kenji talked a great deal about his grandson and granddaughter and the kinds of things they all did together. This talk reminded Osi of his own wife, who died of cancer ten years before he moved to America, and of his son, and only child, killed along with his young wife in a car wreck shortly after they were married. He held the pen tightly and stared at the flower arrangement resting on a chest of drawers. He looked at the paper on the writing desk and wrote down the date in his neat calligraphy. He had nothing to say. What was there to say? He could talk about the weather, about Sogi's business, about America and its politics and its strange culture, but he had done all of that before. He was bored with it and he assumed Kenji was as well. Perhaps he should tell of the sound of rustling silk and of his vision of the lovely Edo woman he had in the stinking ditch, dying. It was not the kind of thing he talked about; it was too personal. What would Kenji's reaction be? After all, he was a doctor and was used to dealing with people on a very personal level. He decided to go ahead and just be honest, just talk, and not try to be entertaining or interesting. He began the letter.

Emori Kenji,

I don't believe I have ever told you about the time, just before you found me, half dead in that ditch, when I had a vision. . . .

He related the story in detail and then added the experience he had in the back yard. After reading it over it sounded foolish and even in poor taste, and he destroyed it. He reread Kenji's letter and tried to think of suitable responses to what his friend had talked about, but nothing came to mind. He put the writing desk away and took down a book he was reading, but was unable to concentrate. He found that it was impossible to get the memory of that sound out of his mind. He finally opened the futon, took off his clothes, put on pajamas and lay in the dark, trying to sleep.

He thought of family. His only remaining family now was Sogi and Mutsu. He remembered his brother Kafu, Sogi's father. Kafu came to America well before the war and he and his wife were interned in a Japanese camp during the war. Kafu was ruined financially, and once Osi was making a respectable salary, he sent money primarily for Sogi's education in the university. A few years after Osi's son and daughter-in-law were killed, he accepted Sogi's invitation to come and live with them in America to be with his family. However, he came for another reason. He was saddened by Japan; everything reminded him of his dead wife and son. He thought that a drastic change might do him some good and he had always wanted to see America. During the occupation, he had learned English and this had helped him advance in the business world and he felt that knowing the language would make it more comfortable to move. He was disappointed, both in the country and in Sogi and Mutsu. They were so thoroughly Americanized, hardly able to understand Japanese, but they were his last remaining bit of family and he clung to them. While he did not wish to return to Japan he brought a little of the country with him in the way he decorated his house, and felt that he had struck some sort of balance - enough of his culture to make him somewhat content, but with a great distance between him and his homeland. Kenji's letters were often painful reminders of what he had left behind, and the constant talk about the healthy and happy progeny made him all the more aware of all that he had lost, or never had. When he had these depressing thoughts, he would usually get busy with flower arrangements, reading, walking to the library or taking a cab to the Zoo or the botanical gardens. Soon he heard the sound of a distant siren, and that common sound seemed to trigger the urge to sleep.

A few days later, he was still faced with the decision of what to write to his friend. It was imperative now that he reply since they seldom let more than a month pass between letters and he knew that Kenji would get worried. He took out the writing desk, got his ink bottle and pen and paper. He decided that his original approach had been far too immediate and he began a second letter.

Emori Kenji,

I cannot tell you exciting things about my offspring, as you have done for me, and I certainly have appreciated it; rather I would have to tell you more about Sogi and Mutsu and you have heard about all there is, I'm afraid. This does not mean that I do not care for them; there is simply little to tell. I have been reading Kafka. Have you read Kafka? A very interesting writer, I would say he is a Japanese writer! His style is somewhat reminiscent of Yokomitsu Riichi. I highly recommend him to you. It is odd to read him here in this place surrounded by plastic, glass and cars and airplanes zooming overhead and sirens and the like. In any case, I think you should give him a try. I am certain that there are good Japanese translations.

I was sitting outside the other night, basking in a rare bit of silence. It was just after the sun had set and the sky was pure and deep. Sogi and Mutsu were undoubtedly watching television - something they do frequently, and I was enjoying being alone in the quietude. Suddenly I heard a noise - it was the sound of rustling silk, the thick kind of old fashioned silk that one sees on manikins behind glass in museums, showing off the dress of ancient periods. I looked around for the source of this sound and could not find it. It was subtle, very subtle, almost like a dream that had surfaced - if you know what I mean. Well, I then recalled that terrible time when I was wounded in China, just before you rescued me. I was laying there in that ditch, with black smoke filling the sky and blowing strongly to the west among the trees. It was oddly silent then too - I say oddly since it would seem that after an attack there would be bedlam, noise, screaming, and the stomping of feet, and so on. There was none of that. I lay there, cold and shivering, in pain, probably barely conscious, and I heard that same sound - rustling silk. You may think me strange, but following that sound, I think I drifted off, and had a vision of a lovely woman of the Edo period, turning her beautiful face toward me.

I was not going to tell you any of this - I may not mail it! It all seems so personal and even a bit silly, after all these years to bring this up. But you were a part of it. Now that I have heard it again, I guess I think it worth reporting, so to speak . . .

He went on, moving into other subjects. He read it over and put it aside, not sure he would send it either. The next day he read it again and the more he read it the less he liked it. Still, he had to send something, and he finally folded the letter, sealed the envelope and mailed it. As soon as he dropped it in the mailbox, at the end of their street, he had regrets. He could have waited another day and composed another, more suitable letter. What was the hurry? But what was done was done.

The weather turned cold and Osi wrapped himself in an old blanket when he sat in the back yard in the evenings. The oak tree was almost bare of its leaves, a few brown ones clung tenaciously to the branches and Osi watched them fluttering, hoping they would hang on and defy the inevitable. One evening his nephew came into the back yard and sat in the other chair at the wooden table.

"Uncle Osi, aren't you cold out here?" Sogi asked, shivering.

"This feels like home. The seasons here are so weak; a little cold weather is good to experience for a change. You don't have much knowledge of real weather," Osi said, smiling.

"You're right, and I am perfectly happy! I have visited the east coast and you can have it."

They chatted about trivial things then Sogi went back into the house and Osi saw the downstairs lights go out. Again, it was quiet. A jet went by, very high up, and that was the only sound. He was aware that this was the kind of silence that had produced the sound he heard, but nothing came. He was disappointed and remained there, waiting. The small porch light over his door illuminated the back yard slightly. He could barely make out the bottlebrush tree that stood in the corner. Its bright red flowers had shrunk into brown tufts and the bees of summer no longer came to them. It looked sad and almost decrepit in the dim light.

Two weeks later, he heard from his friend Kenji. He hurriedly sat at the wooden table, putting on his glasses, and opened the letter. It was a bright sunny day with crispness in the air. A second cold front had passed through and there was the feeling of a real autumn. He felt a sense of warm comfort as he started reading.

Tahei Osamu,

What a strange letter! After all these years to bring up that incident in China. I prefer to forget all of that madness we were in - the whole thing is now a shadowy dream for me. You claim that I rescued you; I would hardly call it that. You have your facts all wrong. It was really quite noisy after the explosion. I think you must have been a little unconscious at the time. Your rustling silk noise is curious. I have no idea what it might sound like. You are such a romantic - a woman of the Edo period!

Let me tell you the latest news about my grand children. Have I told you that Kiju is riding a bicycle?

Osi read the short letter over twice and then put it on the table. The wind came in gusts and one of them took the top page and carried it to the ground. All the excitement over receiving the letter and now this - more news about his grand children, and nothing more than a perfunctory comment about what had been such a terrible experience for Osi. Yes, Kenji had told about the bicycle-riding grandson before. There was no mention of the Kafka. Could it be that Kenji was getting senile? Osi had no desire to answer the letter. He felt he had run out of things to say. He picked up the pages of the letter and went into his house.

He had not shaved that day and decided to do so. As he rinsed his face with warm water before applying the lather, he stopped and looked for a long time at himself. He saw an aging face, grey hair that cut in the old-fashioned military style, very short. The skin beneath his eyes was sagging and his eyes looked sad and weary. He rubbed the top of his head, feeling the thinning hair. He pulled on the skin of his cheek and saw how loose it was. He was fully aware that he was getting old, but had never paid it much mind. He did not like what he saw in the mirror. It reminded him of pictures of old scrawny priests. He shaved, rinsed off the soap and got out his book. The Kafka was depressing and he put it aside and just sat on the futon and stared out the window at the sunlit back yard.

Nothing interested him that day. He thought of doing a flower arrangement but there were no suitable flowers in the yard and he would never consider buying flowers for that purpose. He sat at the wooden table, the book in his lap, and watched a hummingbird looking for flowers, the occasional bee flitting between the few flowers it found. The day hung about him, silent and with an embrace that was pleasant but also with the sensation of loneliness, as if he was wrapped in a cocoon of his own spirit, perhaps made more alone by the absence of flowers that could be arranged by his hand.

A week later, he decided to force himself to respond to Kenji's letter. It would be difficult since he still had little to say. He brought his writing materials out to the table and began.

Emori Kenji,

Perhaps it is you who is mistaken about the situation when I was wounded in China. I believe that I was fully conscious and in control of my senses. . . ."

He wrote a page then realized that he was angry with Kenji, and for little reason. Kenji had his opinion about what happened and Osi had his. He folded the paper in half and started again.

Emori Kenji,

How nice to receive your letter. I am happy that little Kiju is learning to ride a bicycle. I remember when I first rode one - it was such a joy! It must give you a wonderful feeling of satisfaction to see your family growing up so healthy and well cared for. . . .

He made no mention of the China incident and thought this a more fitting letter. He was by then, convinced that his friend was getting old and was indeed perhaps a bit senile. It would be in very poor taste to argue.

Three weeks passed and the weather returned to its usual warmth. Some bulbs that he had planted near his door were breaking through the earth, and he had found a few blossoms in the front yard to use in a flower arrangement. A letter arrived from Japan but it was not from Kenji, rather from his son. It told in a very few words that Emori Kenji had fallen ill - a stroke. He was not expected to live. This news threw Osi into a pit of anxiety and sadness. It was not conceivable that his friend would die. The fact that they were both over seventy had nothing to do with it. He had a horror of not receiving his monthly letter from Kenji, even if it was of things he cared little for or that made him sad. He realized that the letters over all those years had been a large part of his life. What would he do now? Whom could he talk to? He sat on the floor in his living room and wept silently. He wept for all that had happened to him in his life, both good and the bad; it all seemed tragic. He shook his head as he cried as if to try to deny what had happened to Kenji, but he was also shaking his head over his whole life. What was it for? What had it accomplished? No children and grand children to leave his name to, no great achievements that would stand after he was gone. What was the purpose of it all? The letters had helped give his life some purpose, and now they would cease. He considered the possibility of continuing to write anyway, and to pretend that his friend was responding.

He sat until well after the sun had set and the room had darkened. He did not turn on any lights, simply remained kneeling, his head on his chest, thinking, remembering, regretting. As he was about to rise and roll out the futon, he heard it again, very clearly, the rustling of silk. He sat still, holding his breath. It came again, louder, more distinct. He closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, and conjured up the beautiful woman from the Edo period. It was as if she were there in the room with him, turning slowly to show her lovely face.