When I use Zoom in the evening for video conferences with Japanese people, I sometimes hear “Yuyake Koyake” playing over their microphones in the park near their homes. And when I hear that music, there’s a sense of relief that it is still the same, still playing, still “the song.” Just like how it was for me in the past, in Japan, this song “Yuyake Koyake” still plays in the evening to urge the children to go home.
A few years ago, I was driving in the sunset. My daughter, who was sitting behind me, sang “Yuyake Koyake.” Apparently, my Taiwan-born, Chinese-educated daughter learned this song in kindergarten, and she sang “let's go home with the crows” in her unskilled Japanese. I don't know if I had forgotten it or buried it deep in my heart, but the moment I heard it, I felt all kinds of emotions.
When that song was playing, I took it for granted, so I didn't feel anything special; it was just a normal thing for me. However, when it became something that can no longer be taken for granted, the feeling of non-existence grew very strong. My daughter does know the song “Yuyake Koyake,” but I'm afraid I'll never be able to share the impression I found in the song with her. She lives in a place where this song is not “the song.” Here, there are no more crows.
I want to know where I will end up. Would it be the house where my daughters are waiting for me? Or the place where I was born and raised? The answer is always blurred in the orange sky, and I can't see it clearly.