From a nearly a month ago, dictated by a 92-year-old woman to the hand of her daughter, placed in my care, the address refined by a Japanese friend, a letter to Yasufumi Tanaka made it into his hands, nearly two generations after their meeting. Aunt Ruth had met his father in the 1970s and had retained a business card for his electronic company. When she met me during my trip to California last month, she thought to see if she could reconnect with him by giving me a letter to mail once I returned to Japan.
And now Yasufumi leads the company. He has two sons, a daughter and four grandchildren. Both his sons work in the company. It seems so incredible to me, how much has changed, how time has moved forward; and yet it seems that nothing has changed. The players have new positions. Father, son, and grandson, filling different roles as time unfolds them. Housed by the same company in a new location. And a connection from years ago that seems to bridge the transition. I'm not sure why this feels so large and small all at once. Something about the progress of time moving forward, and a new feeling for what the word "progress." What does "progress" mean in terms of a life, or the passage of one life to another? I'm not sure, but I feel lucky to have been caught in the crossfire of this trans-Pacific, generational exchange.
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