a Tiny house like a matchbox

Back when my dad was still a Bunraku puppeteer, 
and my mom had quit acting to try writing,

we lived in an apartment in the small town of Chōfu called Second Hakuyo-sō.
I think it was written as 柏葉荘, but my memory’s fuzzy.
I was just a kid.

We had two six-tatami rooms—about 20 m² each.
So maybe 40 m² in total, less than 50 m² even with the kitchens and toilets.
No bath.
There were three kids—my brother, me, and my baby brother—
plus a big black cat named "Ships".
In that cramped space, three children screamed, fought, and cried all day long,
and my mum called our tiny apartment “Shut up, Second Hakuyo-sō.”

I sometimes wonder, what sort of spirit carried my mother through those years?
Now that I’m about to buy a home myself, I think of it often.
That apartment was far too small for five humans and a cat.
No bath, no air conditioning, not even beds.
We slept in futons on the floor, laid out each night in the old-fashioned Japanese way.

Both my mother and father had grown up in reasonably well-off families,
in houses much larger than this.

How they managed in that rundown little apartment, I don’t know.

Maybe they thought it was temporary,
but we ended up staying 12-13 years.

However, looking back on it now as a property, it maybe wasn’t so bad.

There was a park right out front, a veranda, even a garden.

Chōfu Station was five minutes away.
Now it’s all parking lots and condos,
but back then there were still fields.

My dad was rarely home, always traveling for his work
—performances in Osaka and Tokyo, and overseas tours.

So mostly it was just my mom and us three kids.

No bath, but two kitchens and two toilets.
That was handy.

I’m telling this story because I realized:
the size of the place you grow up in might stick with you.
For me, “comfortable” doesn’t mean new, modern, or spacious.
I’m used to small, shabby places, surrounded by people with little money.

I moved to my grandma’s big house in fifth grade. 
But I still carried with me the feeling that a small house was the default size of home.

And I’m not afraid of living like that.

This low threshold might be a strength, something I should thank my parents for, 

when you’re on your own in another country.

So when I found a little matchbox apartment,
I felt a strange calm.
It looked like a matchbox, so it was cheap,
and unlike other places, the price didn’t scare me.

Zoroku told me, “Check the neighborhood at different times of day.”
So one summer night around ten, I went.
In the half-light of the garden,
women in hijabs and colorful, flowing dresses were gathered together having tea.
In the nearby park, their children were running around.
And yet, the whole scene was strangely quiet, gentle, and peaceful.

So I decided: I’ll buy this tiny house,
right in the middle of the immigrant quarter.
Everything’s gone smoothly so far.
Small houses don’t put pressure on anyone—buyer or seller.

The move won’t be until winter. 

But when it happens, dear friends, come visit.