The green field of silence

I went back to Rikuzentakata for the first time since leaving Iwate in May.  I chose not to go there when I returned in late June.  At that time, I didn't need to see it.  Ofunato was where I wanted to go.  There, I left my past behind.  Or, so I thought.

I'm with three very good people.  They're all safe, and I can be myself with them.  We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company.  They're all important to me.  We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there.  Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going.  I see their shock.  It's palpable.  Our laughter is gone.  We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses.  We park the car near the Port of Ofunato.  I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline.  We're all again speechless.

"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look."  I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house.  A commode.  It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door."  The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence.  The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque.  More silence.

We head to Rikuzentakata.  I warn them of what they will see.  Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists.  Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood.  We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner.  That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There.  See those two white things?  Those are a few of the remaining buildings left.  They're apartments, five stories high.  You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...."  We drive in silence for a very long time.

As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green.  Weeds grow everywhere.  Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds.  Everything is covered in tall, green grass.  If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited.  Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence.  I see a front end loader here and there.  Cars are few and far between.  Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.

Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way.  I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy.  "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car.  The tears come.  Here, over 1,000 people are still missing.  People died here.  The city is essentially gone.  How will this town survive?  Will it?

The green field of silence is filled with pain.