I like the smell of incense.

Incense, in my case, is related to temple visits. To cleansing of the family grave with purifying water baths and sweeping branch brooms. The gathering of relatives I see once a year, or maybe once every two years. The dark wooded steps to the temple’s tatami floor, a wide open space, where we sit in rows of neatly set zabuton, hina dolls dressed in black.

That smooth flowing fragrance that both stings and smothers your nose. The smoke tails trail to the ceiling like twin dancing snakes, their bodies intertwining, gracefully, filling the room with their natural, poisonous beauty. It’s hard to like this. But I do.

But whenever I smell a hint of it on the breeze, that one memory comes back to me, washing over my mind like a breath of fresh air, dragging me down.

-

“Hey, Mr. Neighbor! Stop stepping on the grass!”

A small bell voice resounds through the after-storm morning air tickled by warm sunlight. I’m standing in front of my gate, gripping my red lunch pouch, and glaring at a tall young man in a middle school uniform, his school bag in his hand and over his shoulder. He is now frozen with one foot raised over a clump of green blades poking out of the cracks in the asphalt road.

The expression on his face is one of feigned surprise and fear.

“Wh--- why not?” His voice is faintly shaking. But not with horror.

“The grass will be hurts. They don't like being hurts.”

When I finish my warning, puffing out my checks, his fake mask of astonishment melts and he smiles his big smile, coming over to me and patting my head, ruffling my hair.

“Okay. I’m sorry. I won't do it again.”

“You promise?”

His glowing smile. It’s like the sun, bright and big and warm. “Yes, I promise.”

-

We have been neighbors since we were children. Well, he was about 7 years older than me. But always my playmate. I had no other siblings and my parents were always busy, so he was like a brother to me. My sun, the biggest existence in my world.

But one day, my sun stopped shining. It disappeared, overtaken by storm clouds.

-

I whip out my cell phone, hastily punching in the number of the kindly lady next door. She had called me while I was in class; I listened to the voice mail she left me. And my face had paled to contrast with the whiteness of white rice paper.

The sun began to cloud over, the swelled white cotton balls in the sky signaling rain to come.

As I rush through the hospital’s front sliding doors, I struggle to smooth my skirt and fix my ribbon bow upon my neck. My school uniform is a mess. I mention a single name and receive a room number in return.

The clouds gather, stronger in numbers.

I nearly slam the room door open. It slides on liquid rollers, moving gently aside to allow me passage. The lady from next door is sitting by the bed. Her eyes wander over my sadly. White sheets and red bleeping lights.

My Sun.

Before I can realize my emotions, tears begin to splash down my front. As if awakened by the sound of my sadness, he stirs.

“Little One.” My nickname.

I stumble over and commence to bawl my eyes out.

Why was he here? Why were the machines here? Why didn’t he tell me? Why?

“I didn’t want you to worry, Little One.”

No. No. You not telling me anything makes me worry the most.

He smiles and pats my head, like always. I see a few rays of sunlight leak through the clouds. And I feel a glimmer of warmth. Happiness mixed with sadness, but it keeps it in.

-

The incense in the container burns slowly as I sit back on my thighs and close my eyes. The smell curls into my nose, invoking memory. My memory of my source of light when I was younger. My Sun.