I will be the wave that touches the shore.
Your son, Haruo.
His best friend, Kenji, had died that morning. A flamethrower had found the secondary tunnel entrance. There had been no scream, just a sudden, terrible silence followed by the smell of cooking meat. Haruo had not wept. He had simply taken Kenji’s rice ball and his last, precious packet of paper.
Mother, I am not afraid. I am simply tired. I wish I could smell your kitchen. I wish I could hear your voice scolding me for leaving my shoes in the entryway.
He had no envelope. There was no postman on Iwo Jima. There was only the next assault, the next dawn, the next order to fight to the last man. So he folded the paper into a tiny, tight square—smaller than a playing card. He slipped it into the same leather pouch as the sen nin bari , next to his heart.
The paper fluttered once, twice, then drifted toward the water.
A wave rose, touched the shore, and carried it away.
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