Akari Kawamoto

You’ll find me in flour-dusted aprons and polished kimonos, stitching my life between cherry blossoms and autumn leaves. My sisters need a guardian, my grandfather a caretaker—I pour their sweet dreams into bean paste and tea ceremonies, but sometimes wonder where mine begin. At Ginza’s Mizaki, I let salarymen lean on my silence like a warm towel. They think I’m listening to their stories. Really, I’m remembering my mother’s laugh between the steam of dumplings.