Dear Naeki Taki,
No matter how cold it is still, winter is over. Things might not be easier but you’ll be great (as usual).
Congratulation for the spring and everything. It’ll be a beautiful one because most flowers will be late bloomers.
Warmest hug & best regards,
To Unina Amicha Prasetyo,
When I told you to keep moving on, it wasn’t about sitting in the spinning carousel. Yes you’re moving on; up; high until you think that you’re in the sky again but soon you’re back staring at the ground through the window again. In fact, you’re going nowhere.
Now, go out of your carousel, take off your shoes, step your feet back on the wet grass and run. I know you would go even lower but you need to leave the carnival. I know you built it in years, but it’s now empty. Find the exit door and don’t look back. When we meet, I’ll do my best to help you with the map.
That’s what I meant with moving on.
To Naeki Taki, I wrote this for you.
I wrote this while remembering the first day we met in Kyoto, somewhere along Gion. I made my guess that you weren’t Japanese but when you spelled your name, ‘Naeki Taki’, I made another guess that you weren’t quite a Japanese. It turned out that the first guess did better.
You were only named after Japanese mountain in Nirasaki, Yamanashi Prefecture. “And Taki means ‘waterfall’ in Japanese,” you told me, “my father left his heart in Japan for almost ten years of living here. It was weird, everyone at school and university expected me to be an exchange student or just…. something different.” “I understand,” I said, “I have a friend that plans to name her daughter after a mountain in Nusa Tenggara, a province in, guess what…. Indonesia.” Then you asked me to call you ‘Taki’. I agreed.
Kyoto and Kobe were even nicer with a company but you had to come home as your boyfriend told you. “I adored him but the road ahead might not be easy,” you said while we had our farewell dinner in Fisherman’s Market by the port. I could feel how deeply in love you were, yet how hard you tried to be cautious about it. It was only a week but I knew it from the way you listed his favorite books and described the way he drove his old white car.
It’s been a year, Taki, since my Kansai trip. How are you?
I read in your blog that you are now in London and heart-broken.
Taki, I don’t know what really happened between you and him. Between Nisaraki and your father. Between two tales of two cities. I was lost all the way, but I knew you and I know you. Because I believe that you’ re still the petite girl with great life just like you used to be. You’ll never lose your charm because it is not in the vividness of your lip or blush on your cheek. It is in your humble way of telling geeky jokes or geographical trivia. You know Taki, you were the most wonderful travel mate I ever stumbled upon.
I don’t know him but I know that some men are jerks. Listen to me Taki, some men are jerks indeed but some are just unlucky. Anyone who left you heartbroken must be the unlucky one. Maybe unlucky because he didn’t make it with you. Maybe unlucky because he just did not take the chance. But men are natural gamblers. Being unlucky on Monday won’t stop them buying lottery tickets on Saturday. Some just don’t care and some others simply never realize how much they lost.
Don’t be scared, Taki, you’ll find the lucky one. You’ll find the one who would be your company in silence and a part of your little adventures. You’ll find the one without reason to fall for you but will still do. You’ll find the one who would laugh on your cynical one-liner and complete your half-finished sketch. He might be waiting in the afternoon somewhere around Samfundet or Munkegata with a novel on his lap and snowflakes under his feet. Find him and you will see the aurora, and never miss one again.
With all nobility of Norwegian winter from Trondheim,