He could not write that. So he wrote about plums.
That night, the Americans came with satchel charges. The tunnel collapsed in a roar of stone and fire. Haruo did not feel the rock that crushed his ribs. He felt only a sudden, surprising warmth, as if someone had draped a blanket over him.
Your son, Haruo.
A wave rose, touched the shore, and carried it away.
Kenji sends his regards. He is asleep now. He asked me to tell you his mother’s pickled plums were the best he ever had. letters iwo jima
The ink was faded, almost illegible. But Sato, whose own grandfather had died on a ship in Tokyo Bay, could read the old-fashioned characters. He read about the white tern. He read about the laundry. He read about the ocean.
He did not find the soldier’s name. But he found the last line, the one that had survived forty years of darkness and damp: He could not write that
I will be the wave that touches the shore.