祖母の箪笥の引き出しを開けると、色褪せた手紙の束が几帳面に紐で結ばれて並んでいる。差出人は祖父であり、戦地から、出張先から、あるいは隣町の宿から、几帳面な万年筆の字で日々の些事を綴ったものだ。一通読むのに数分とかからないが、その一通が届くまでに祖母は幾日も待った。待つという時間そのものに意味が宿っていたことは、想像にかたくない。
When I open the drawer of my grandmother's chest, I find a bundle of faded letters tied neatly with string. The sender is my grandfather — writing from the front, from business trips, from inns in the next town over, each note filled in his precise fountain-pen hand with the small events of his days. Any one of them takes only a few minutes to read, yet my grandmother waited days for each to arrive. It is easy to imagine that the very act of waiting held meaning in itself.