On the 31st of March, I attended the funeral of Satoko Yamashita. A student from the special needs school that I visit once a month. 17. She was wheelchair-bound and was entirely dependent on her teachers move her around. Yet, such a bright and cheerful teenager. Her favourite colour was pink. She loved Kitty-chan (hello kitty), her favourite band was ‘Dreams come true’ and she was always psyched up for our English lessons.
During our last lesson, I taught her the names of animals in English and the sounds they made. We had fun discovering how animals sounded different in different cultures. We discovered that we shared a common aversion to snakes.
Last month, we played ‘Paper sumo’ together. I revised the animal sounds we learnt the month before. I was looking forward to seeing her after Spring break.
Then, a phone call came on the 30th, telling me that she had passed on for no apparent reason. She just died. Rationally, I knew that it was probable that severely disabled people will have shorter lifespans. Yet, it still came as a shock. I never knew how I had come to love her for being such a bright spot in my visits. I felt a deep sadness.
Yesterday, another student died. He was in a car along Route 266, on his way home. The car crashed. He was thrown out. He had just graduated in March, all ready to start a new chapter of his life. A chapter that has ended, abruptly.
He was always cheerful, mischievious. a joker. Part of a group of boys who would stare at me and make faces at me while waiting for assembly to begin. Ready to see me laugh. Always ready for the next joke. My last conversation with him was in the library. He was wearing a pink shirt with a crappy English phrase i can’t seem to recall, that made me smile. I told him I liked it very much and he proudly turned around and showed us the slogan more clearly. His smile always brought one of mine out.
My heart sank when I learnt about in the evening . I couldn’t make it for the wake because I was going for the Haiya dance. Another young person gone. too early. I just wanted to keep asking my colleague, how he died, to find out the reason. But, here, everyone was quiet, they didn’t know. and I stopped probing.
At that time, I felt a sense of relief that I didn’t have to attend another funeral. I just didn’t have it in me to go for another one. Yet, as I type this, I realise that I do regret not going. I probably would never forget that I forgot, for the sake of my own desire to avoid facing death, to say goodbye.
I wasn’t as closely connected to both students and I feel this sad. I cannot imagine what the other teachers are feeling.
