On my first visit to Kyoto fifteen years ago, I was enchanted by the lively scene along the river. Friends, families, and dogs enjoyed picnics and socializing, but I was most charmed by the couples. Were they on first dates or were they established couples completely at ease with each other? These thoughts led me to imagine someone reminiscing about a first date, enjoying the memory of an innocence we can only experience once.

I remember how we packed our bentos for our first picnic and how you carefully prepared everything so lovingly. Onigiri, carrot salad, rice, sliced fruit, rolled tamago.
I remember how you snuck glances at me, your shyness one of your greatest attractions.

I remember how we walked along the banks of the Kamogawa. How I wished I could hold your hand. How we picked a spot not too close to other people. How the old man warned us about the tonbi. “Watch your food,” he said, pointing to the sky. How we nodded and dismissed him, because of course we would watch our food.

I remember how we nibbled at our snacks. How we talked awkwardly, pretending we weren’t nervous, trying to muster an appetite. How your hand brushed mine as you passed me the onigiri.

I remember sipping mugicha from the same thermos and how I felt connected to you with that gesture. How we both eagerly opened our bags with our special donuts. The ones we had traveled out of the way for—taking two buses, and missing the connection. Gourmet donuts. Crème Brûlée for you. Chocolate raspberry for me.

I remember how the tonbi swooped down and grabbed them right out of our hands before our first bites. How we laughed and laughed until our sides hurt and we collapsed on the blanket. How the old man turned and started to scold us. Then smiled and left us to our private moment.

I remember how we sat there quietly when the laughing was over. How the silence was loudest of all. And how much we understood about each other, about us, in that moment.

I remember how you gently took my hand and led me away from the river.