discussing the ginkgos. The trees at the top of the path would be mostly
bare in the morning, they agreed.
“The garden will be covered with leaves again,” Ikuko said.
“Yes. I have to sweep them up, I remember. It happens every year.”
The sound of trees thrashing in the wind came from the ginkgos in the
row, there was no question of that. It seemed there might be another sound
as well—the faint sound of ginkgo leaves dropping down onto the roof.
“It’s lucky Yuko took the photographs when she did, isn’t it? We can
show them to Shinichi when he comes home for winter vacation. He says
he hadn’t noticed the split either.”
Soeda understood that the sound of the wind had reminded Ikuko of their
son. Shinichi’s reply to her letter had arrived that morning. He had written
that he didn’t remember much about the stages in which the ginkgo leaves
fell.
The half-leaved, half-bare row of ginkgos had seemed to Soeda like his
own discovery. He felt now that the very last of its yellow leaves were
being scattered by the fierce night wind—he could feel it in the chill at the
back of his neck. Just as Ikuko had said, they would have to explain to
Shinichi with photographs.
Shinichi had gone off to a university in Kyoto against the wishes of his
family. Soeda still couldn’t understand why he had been so opposed to the
idea of attending one the numerous universities in Tokyo. The boy said that
he liked the old Japan of Kyoto and Nara and insisted that the only time in
his life when he would be able to see these cities as he liked was during his
college days.
Soeda began to wonder, yet again, pointlessly, in the midst of the wind,
whether Shinichi hadn’t just wanted to try living away from home. And
then one of lkuko’s little quirks drifted up into his mind. In autumn, when
