Seta Ichika - I Don-t Have A Mother Anymore- So... -

“You’ll miss my cooking one day,” her mother would say, half-joking.

She looks around the room. Her mother’s shawl is still draped over the back of the chair by the window. A small ceramic fox—a souvenir from a trip to Inari Shrine when Ichika was seven—sits on the windowsill. Her mother had bought matching ones. Ichika’s fox has a tiny chip on its ear. Seta Ichika - I Don-t Have A Mother Anymore- So...

“I don’t have a mother anymore. So I’ll have to be my own.” “You’ll miss my cooking one day,” her mother

She doesn’t plug in. She plays one note. Low. Long. A single, sustained vibration that travels through the wood, through her chest, through the cold floor of the apartment. A small ceramic fox—a souvenir from a trip

It is not a sad note. It is not a happy note.

It is a note that says: I am still here. And I am carrying you with me.