A Final Drive with My Mom

“Moshu-sama, please take the passenger seat and hold this photo.” The young man in a black suit gestured to me, holding a large umbrella over my head. It was Friday afternoon. The heavy rain had subsided but it continued to drizzle. That day, I was the moshu, chief mourner of my mom’s funeral. I thanked him and slid into the white Toyota, which didn’t resemble a traditional hearse. Hearses in Japan used to be black cars adorned with gold, float-like decorations, but this symbol of bad luck seemed to have become obsolete. I buckled my seatbelt and held my mom’s photo in my lap. It was a picture I had taken five years ago when my father was still alive and we enjoyed tea together at a nearby cafe. Her smile was genuine, with no hint of her husband’s approaching death and her own fate in her countenance. I turned my head and glanced at the white wooden casket loaded in the back of the vehicle, still feeling like I was in a bad dream. She died at the age of 70, just five days before her birthday. I had placed a package containing two slices of strawberry shortcake for Mom and Dad inside the casket along with her favorite CDs, but I wasn’t sure if she would notice them. If Buddhist teachings were true, her soul was supposed to be here. But she died from a heart attack. She might be too confused and disoriented to celebrate her birthday. It felt strange because even after the non-religious funeral, I was somewhat biased by the widespread belief that a deceased person’s soul stays in this world until they cross the Sanzu River on the 49th day after passing away. I wondered if my childhood visits to a temple in Niigata still had any influence on my thoughts. <a href="https://medium.com/japonica-publication/a-final-drive-with-my-mom-3995426af09">Learn More</a>