Dressed in black mourning attire, men and women, boys and girls, people of all ages and backgrounds enter the large, concrete building where the memorial service is being held. I'm in Ofunato again. It's quiet in the concert hall even with people milling around. A large display of chrysanthemums greets me as I enter. Our favorite city council member is inside the door, grabs my arm and moves me towards the registration desk.
"Your city and name, please," a young man in black tells me. I decide to put Boston as my city as opposed to Tokyo. I'm from both. Technically, I'm not lying.
People I've seen in town over the past several days stop and bow deep. I'm thanked for attending. I bow back and say, "Of course I'm here. I wouldn't be anywhere else to day." They smile. I smile.
Regular people, not the invited guests and speakers are to sit upstairs. I head up, sit, and look down at the stage. There's a tall, wooden, rectangular pillar in the center of the stage reminding me of a grave stone. "Honoring the souls of those who died in the Great East Earthquake." All around the pillar are more chrysanthemums. Yellow and white, it's an elegant yet simple display. This covers almost the entire stage.
The honored guests file in. I recognize some. The service begins at 10am sharp. First on the agenda is a moment of silence. We all rise, bow, and everything is silent except for the clicking of camera shutters from the press corp cornered into the front right section down below. I'm not sure how I feel about this noise. Don't they need to be silent, too? Does getting a good photo trump paying their respects?
The speeches from the officials all sound the same. The mayor, the governor, the chairman of the city council, an official from the Ministry of Reconstruction sound political and formal. This isn't bad. It's just not touching.
Then comes the representative from the victims' families. I've seen him somewhere before but I can't place him. He stands, bows to the crowd, bows to the stage, walks towards it, bows again. He then starts to read.
He lost his wife and mother. After the earthquake hit, he rushed home and told his mother to get to higher ground. He then went upstairs and told his wife to leave as quickly as possible. Here his voice cracks. Pausing, he says she looked at him with tears in her eyes and told him to be careful as he went to join the fire brigade.
His mother didn't make it to high ground soon enough. Nor did his wife. He apologizes to them for being gone so often. He tells them he knows they feel bad for dying and leaving him behind. He says he misses them. He pauses often, trying to keep his voice calm. It doesn't work. We all know he's crying.
As are those in attendance. I hear sniffles. I look down at the backs of the three men sitting in the row in front of me, and see them quickly wiping tears away. I'm trying not to openly bawl, and find myself not breathing. Worried I'll hyperventilate, I start breathing slowly. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale again.
Then come the flowers. Each person in attendance is allowed to give an offering of a single flower. There are probably 1000 people there. Wondering how long this is going to take, I watch from the balcony and marvel at how quickly people funnel through. I go down to the front and take a flower given to me by a white-gloved woman, take it to the stage, bow and add it to one of the many neatly stacked piles.
Just like that the service is over and we head out past the large displays of flower bouquets, and I see one from the Prime Minister. I bow to the mayor as I exit, and he bows back, smiling.
I'm exhausted, but it's not a burdensome exhaustion. And, after all that, I know I've just committed myself to Tohoku all over again.
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