By Kokoro Still
Some rains pass.
Others remain—
not in puddles,
but in the scent of the tatami,
in the quiet beneath your steps,
in the way Kokoro listens when a room forgets to return.
A Room That Waited Longer Than the Storm
The shutters hadn’t been opened yet.
Outside, the storm had already left.
But inside, the room was still listening.
My grandmother moved from one edge of the house to the other,
sliding the shutters open with both hands—
not in a hurry,
not with intention,
but as if returning something that had waited.
I followed,
carrying a cloth.
Not because anything was wet.
Not because I knew what to do.
But because I wanted to walk where she walked.
The tatami was soft,
as if the storm had sat there.
The air still smelled like rain.
But it wasn’t the scent of weather.
It was the scent of a night that had soaked into things
and then quietly stayed.
When a Cloth Is Not for Cleaning
I didn’t know what to wipe.
There was no task.
No instruction.
But I bent down anyway—
and passed the cloth across the tatami.
Gently.
Like touching something I couldn’t see.
The cloth didn’t change.
But it felt different in my hand—
as if it had passed through something left behind.
Perhaps a footprint.
Perhaps the resting place of memory.
I was too young to know the meaning of gesture.
But something in me still wanted to take part.
Not to be helpful.
Just to be near.
Just to be part of what the room was remembering.
The Stillness That Breathes
Once the shutters were all open,
light stepped back in.
Not quickly.
Not all at once.
The room brightened from the floor, not the sky.
And still, there was no sound.
But I remember a breath—
as if the tatami let go of something
that had been holding on
all night.
What the Floor Still Holds
Some presences do not leave.
They do not ask for attention.
They do not remain only in scent or sound.
Even when these fade, the presence stays—quiet, unshaped, and whole.
In the place where cloth once moved
without knowing why.
That afternoon,
I did not help.
I did not clean.
But I stayed.
And the tatami,
I believe,
still carries that moment.
Not the cloth.
Not the storm.
But the presence of a child
who didn’t know how to be useful—
only how to listen with Kokoro.
Featured image: The image was created by AI (ChatGPT)
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