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writing about and three of my older sisters. I was the youngest member of the family.
    All of my sisters have the character meaning “generation” or “representative,” pronounced “yo,” at the end of their names. Beginning with the oldest who had already left home, they are Shigeyo, Haruyo, Taneyo and Momoyo. But I always addressed my sisters at home according to their ages, so for me these three were “Big Sister,” “Middle Big Sister” and “Little Big Sister.” As I mentioned earlier, my brother would have nothing to do with me, so I always played with my sisters. (I’m still good at playing patty-cake and cat’s cradle. When I demonstrate these skills to my current acquaintances or motion-picturecrew, I invariably draw a surprised reaction. I’m sure they will be much more surprised to read about my “Konbeto-san” period.)
    The sister I spent the most time with was “Little Big Sister.” I remember very clearly one time when we were playing at the school where my father taught in the Ōmori district. We were in a funnel-shaped corner and suddenly a twirling gust of wind lifted the two of us, clutching at each other, into space. We floated in the air a moment and the next second crashed to the ground. I cried all the way home, grasping her hand tightly in mine as we ran.
    When I was in the fourth grade, this dear sister of mine became ill. Quite suddenly, as if touched by a swift, evil wind, she died. I can never forget the forlorn smile on her face when we went to visit her in the Juntendo Hospital.
    Nor can I forget playing with her at the time of the Doll Festival on March 3. In my family we had an heirloom set of festival dolls representing the Emperor and Empress. We also had the three court ladies, five court musicians, an Urashima Taro (a kind of underwater Rip Van Winkle who took a ride on a tortoise and came home an old man) and a court lady with a Pekinese dog on a leash. There were two pairs of gold folding screens, two lanterns and five little gold lacquer trays complete with the tiny dishes and utensils for ceremonial meals. There was even a silver brazier small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
    With the lights turned out, soft gleams from the lantern candles in the darkened room fell on the dolls arranged on their five-tier stand of scarlet wool felt. In the eerie glow they seemed so lifelike as to start speaking at any moment, and this exquisite beauty was just a little bit frightening to me. Little Big Sister would call me over to sit before the doll display, put one of the trays in front of me and proffer the brazier. She would treat me to a fraction of a thimbleful of sweet white saké in one of the tiny doll-sized cups.
    Little Big Sister was the prettiest of my three sisters who lived at home, and she was almost too gentle and kind. Her beauty was something of a glass-like transparency, delicate and fragile, offering no resistance. When my brother fell off the balance beams and injured his head at school, it was this sister who sobbed and said she wanted to die in his place. Even as I write about her now, my eyes burn with tears and I keep having to blow my nose.
    The day her funeral was held, the whole family and all our relatives gathered at the main hall of the Buddhist temple to listen to the priests recite sutras. When the recitation became quite noisy, as they all chimed in with the wooden drum and the gong sounding, I suddenlybroke into peals of laughter. Much as my father, mother and sisters glared at me, I couldn’t stop laughing. My brother led me outside, still laughing. I was prepared for a terrific scolding. But my brother did not seem in the least angry. Nor did he leave me out in front and return to the ceremony in the main hall as I expected him to do. Instead, he turned and looked back toward the loud proceedings and said, “Akira, let’s get farther away.” He set out briskly across the paving stones toward the temple gate.
    As he forged ahead, he spat