Cleaning, laundry, cooking...

I like housework

But fires are traumatic

The house where I was born and raised caught fire and burned down 2/3 of it.

It happened when I was 11 years old (early January, the year I was going to be a junior high school student and the final year of elementary school).

I still remember the night of the fire as clearly as if it had happened a few hours ago (although it's fragmented).

I think it was around the time when the New Year's mood was still lingering.

I was relaxing in my grandparents' room on the second floor watching a music program on TV when smoke started coming out of the ceiling and spreading rapidly.

My parents live nearby, but they were out and I don't remember when they came back or what I did.

When I see a fire report on the news, I still remember the sound of the fire crackling in the attic and the smoke filling the room, so I sometimes switch to something else.

It was over 50 years ago, but it's stuck in my mind, so I guess this is what they call a trauma.

My grandfather, who was a master carpenter and built mainly local inns and villas, moved to this area and finished our house with his own hands.

It must have been 30 years since I was born, but it was a comfortable Japanese-style two-story house with a tea room.

It was expanded and became my father's workplace (architectural office).

I wrote "2/3 burned" because the main house was completely burned down, but fortunately the fire did not spread to my father's architectural office, and all his documents and tools were safe.

My father had many interests and talents, but he was destined to be an architect, and he had a direction in his calling, so I think the universe spared him that place.

Of course, the fact that his house was on fire was a huge trauma for an 11-year-old child, but there was something even more traumatic that happened during that time.

While the firefighting efforts were still ongoing, I was standing next to my grandfather, who was standing there in a daze in front of his house, when an adult ran up to him.

He was a small local newspaper reporter (I knew he was a reporter even though I was a child because he was writing something in a notebook with a pen).

The adult was asking the grandfather who couldn't help his burning home, "You're the husband, right? What happened? What caused it?"

What are you saying to someone who is about to lose their precious, precious home! I screamed in my mind as I was 11 years old and standing next to him.

I wanted to say it out loud, but I couldn't.

It was the first incident that made me feel like I was so weak.

My memory after that is that the next day, I stood in my child's room on the second floor, which smelled of smoke and only had pillars left, and looked up to see the blue sky.

I went to elementary school for the remaining month with my textbooks, which were swelled with water from the fire and smelled of burnt.

My teachers and classmates were kind to me, so I enjoyed school life.

Thanks to the really kind and humane people in the neighborhood, I was able to stay in the same place after that.

I will be living in a beautiful house that my father designed himself.

I will also spend six years of my adolescence in a new space, discovering theater and music, and shaping myself.

After that, my life at home was full of ups and downs, and I lost my house in a way that wasn't a fire.

I moved to Tokyo and spent my days in my own ups and downs and hilarious ways.

To be continued.

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