TW: Death of a parent, grief
The shoji screen opened, and a group of men dressed in suits came out, reeking of alcohol. Their faces were beet red just like the lantern hanging near the doors. I watched people, men and women, come and go from the side, rubbing my hands together every once in a while. I did it until the noise died down, and the clock turned 22:30.
The standard welcome greeted me when I entered. I stopped when I failed to recognize the staff who welcomed me. I studied his face, a dark-skinned boy with refined and rough features with the same height as me.
A new part-timer, I deduced, giving him a nod before continuing to the bar while glancing around. There were still a few guests, I could still also make out rowdy conversations from the tatami rooms. The tension from my shoulders got released, and my vision went hazy. Not much had changed in this place even after a year.
The furniture, the wall, the displayed scrolls, and even my high school graduation picture was still hanging near the bar. This felt more like home than any other place. Not my new apartment or the house I lived in before university. This bar right here was home. My gaze lingered on the picture of three year old me and Mom.
Mom. My throat tightened, and I closed my eyes until someone called me.
"Oh, Reiko." A small stocky man called behind the counter. His thick eyebrows hitched up. "Your father thought you wouldn't come."
Okamoto-san stopped wiping the glasses. He had a small knowing smile that I didn't like for years. It was always mixed with pity even though I knew he was trying to hide it.
I bowed. "Long time no see, Okamoto-jisan. Is my father still here?"
"Yes. Why don't you sit down, and I'll call him." He placed a small glass of water in front of me.
I watched him disappear into the back room, stuffing the cloth in his apron pocket, the spell of pity disappearing. Seeing him like that made me feel like a little kid every time. He was one of the people that my father retained when he transferred the family-owned izakaya after my middle school graduation into this side of the city.
That was when I stopped helping out even though as a child, the bar was my playground. Our izakaya started as a sake and liquor shop. I would sit in the corner of the bar while Dad explained the differences of each type of sake, making me taste some of them. Mom was outraged at first, lecturing us, but she would end up joining us, getting drunk every time.
When Dad started supplying alcoholic beverages into other pubs, he expanded our business too. That was when I had to help out more because Mom couldn't anymore. I didn't mind. I loved spending my time there, plus Mom would still sit behind the bar and chat away with the customers. All I had to was wipe cups and glasses or pour someone their drink with Mom's help.
I treasured those memories—me and my mom—so much that for the first year, I couldn't look at the old bar without seeing her. My heart ached. Dad's too. He'd sit by the counter and drink by himself. Someone carved out a hole in our lives, and there was nothing we could do.
Or rather, there was nothing I could do because eventually, Dad decided to move. Our lives improved as well. We no longer dwelled in sorrow except for this day.
I started drinking with him when I reached sixteen but only in the house. When I reached twenty, the legal age, we would drink in here. It wasn't hard being Motherless at the age of thirteen. It was the sadness that gnawed at me—at us, our family.
Now, it was guilt that ate at me. I couldn't believe I forgot even though I had been dreading it since the change of the seasons. Dad came out of one of the tatami rooms, and I gulped down the water, realizing how thirsty I was, trying to wash away the remorse.
Dad was carrying a tray filled with glasses, cups, and bottles. His lips curled into a contagious grin when he spotted me. He handed the tray to the new part-timer and said something to him. I began running to him but remembered where I was, hushing it to light hurried steps. He brushed his signature navy blue coat and fix his hat. I didn't realized I missed him until now.