盆提灯の明かりの向こうに立つ僕は、誰なのか

The incense smoke rose straight towards the ceiling.

Next to me, sitting seiza with hands clasped before the family altar, 78-year-old Setsuko Sakuma quietly murmured, "You, make sure to properly greet your father-in-law." I replied, "Yes," and closed my eyes. I didn't know the face of the man in the memorial photograph. Yet, for Setsuko-san, in that very moment, I was undeniably his "son" and her "son."

When Obon arrives, our requests surge. New Year's and Obon. In these seasons when families are expected to gather, some people find themselves without family. Some have lost loved ones. Some have family who exist but never come. And then our phone rings. "Could we ask you again this year?"

At Family Romance, during the Obon period, we receive about 1.5 times the usual monthly requests. Most of these are for so-called family roles: "a son returning home for the holidays," "a daughter bringing her grandchildren," or "a husband accompanying for a grave visit."

What's striking is that most of our clients are elderly. And often, the person they specify for us to "play" actually exists. The real son is in Tokyo. The real daughter is overseas. But they don't come home. There are no calls. In this reality, there are the watchful eyes of neighbors. They'll be asked, "Are your children coming home for Obon?" And having already answered, "Yes, they're coming again this year," they feel compelled to have someone show up.

Perhaps you think it's about keeping up appearances. At first, I did, just a little. But once I'm there, on the ground, I understand instantly. This isn't about appearances. It's a survival strategy. Imagine how profoundly being labeled "an elderly person abandoned by their family" in a local community can erode someone's daily life. Imagine the terror of the neighbors' gaze, the faces you see every morning, transforming into pity.

The most nerve-wracking part of Obon requests is visiting graves.

Let's say I'm playing "Koji, the son." Relatives might be at the cemetery. The family name is carved on the tombstone. And that's not all. Someone visiting the neighboring grave might even call out, "Oh, Koji-kun? You've grown!" We memorize the family tree beforehand. We memorize the deceased's death anniversary. We memorize the grave's plot number. We memorize which flowers to offer. We memorize the location of the water bucket. Even the way one holds the dipper can reveal, "This person isn't used to visiting graves."

One summer, I accompanied a woman in her seventies, Keiko Yamada, to a grave visit as her "son." Keiko-san's real son, she told me, had left home over a decade ago and had been out of contact ever since. As I clasped my hands before the grave, I still remember the words Keiko-san quietly uttered beside me.

"Father, Koji has come."

Keiko-san's voice, as she spoke to the tombstone, wasn't trembling. Rather, it was calm. That calmness struck me profoundly. Perhaps Keiko-san had endured the entire year for this single moment. Only before the tombstone did the lie become truth. In that paradox, there was undeniably a form of salvation.

When you do this kind of work, you're always asked one thing: "Isn't it all just a lie, in the end?"

A lie? Perhaps. There's a contract, payment is exchanged, and I'm performing a role. If you only consider that structure, it's undeniably a lie. But I want to ask in return: is the "real son" who returns home solely out of obligation, fiddling with his smartphone in front of the altar, truly real? Does the "real grandchild" who visits the grave once a year, yet doesn't even remember the deceased's death anniversary, truly function as a real family member?

It's not that I want to negate real families. I know that blood ties possess an irreplaceable power. Since I, who serve as a father in twenty-three families, am saying this, there's no doubt. Because of blood ties, there are things you can forgive. And because of blood ties, there are also things you cannot forgive.

Yet, I also believe this: when one clasps hands before the altar, when one offers flowers at the grave, if the emotions present are genuine, then isn't that genuineness itself real? Was the relief Keiko-san felt before the grave invalidated simply because I was a "fake"? I believe that simply cannot be the case.

I'd like to touch briefly on the social context.

The number of single-person households among the elderly in Japan continues to rise. Even if they have children, they're estranged; they've lost a spouse and are alone; contact with siblings has ceased. When such individuals face Obon, what happens? They turn on the TV, and there's news of the "homecoming rush." They go to the supermarket, and there's a "Obon feast" corner. From neighboring houses, lively laughter spills out. The entire world revolves around the premise of "the happiness of spending time with family," and those who fall outside of that feel as if they've become transparent.

Family Romance also offers a "senior watch service." We make regular phone calls or visits. But Obon requests are qualitatively different from merely checking in. It's not about safety confirmation, but a profound wish: "I want someone to be with me." They want to experience "the state of having family," even if only for a few hours. Is that a luxury? I don't believe it is.

There are limits to governmental support. Care managers are busy. Welfare commissioners are overwhelmed. We can't possibly pick up all the loneliness that falls through the cracks of the system. But we want to pick up what we can. With that in mind, I'm arranging my August schedule again this year.

I'll write honestly.

Obon assignments are mentally tough, even for me. My usual roles as a substitute father or husband involve acting for living people. But Obon involves the deceased. I listen to stories of the departed, offer their favorite foods alongside the client, and nod along to cherished memories. I've never met the deceased. Yet, through the client's words, there are moments when I can glimpse the outline of that person.

Last year, at a client's home, I shared a shojin ryori meal. An eighty-something woman placed braised eggplant on my plate, saying, "Your father, you know, he loved this braised eggplant." I replied, "I know, Mother." I didn't know. There was no way I could have known. But the moment I said it, I didn't feel like I was lying. There was certainly the presence of one more person at that dining table.

As I accumulate these experiences, sometimes I lose track of who I am. I am Koji, and Kenta, and Makoto, and myself. When I'm clasping my hands before the altar, I wonder, "Who am I praying as right now?" The answer doesn't come. Without an answer, I watch the incense smoke. Perhaps that's fine. Because not having an answer means I'm still thinking.

When Obon ends, I receive messages from clients. "Thanks to you, it was a good Obon," they'll say. "I could proudly tell the neighbors my son came," and "Please help us again next year." Every time I receive those words, I feel relief, and at the same time, a small pang of pain.

Next year, too, huh?

I always say, "I don't want you to depend on me. I want you to use me to build real human connections." But can I tell 78-year-old Setsuko to build new relationships now? Can I tell 80-something Keiko to reconcile with her estranged son? No, I can't. I'm not in a position to say that. That's why I'll go again next year. I'll sit seiza in front of the Buddhist altar, light incense, and press my palms together for a stranger's deceased loved one.

Honestly, it would be better if services like mine didn't exist. I wish it were the norm for families to return home for Obon, visit graves, eat watermelon together, and say, "We'll come again," before they leave. But for some people, that's not the norm. My utmost effort is to make August a little warmer for those people.

In the evening, on my way to the station after finishing a request, I smelled the welcoming fires. At the entrance of some house, a small flame flickered. That fire is a beacon for someone returning home. I wasn't the "someone" for that particular house, but for today, I was the "someone" for *some* house.

My smartphone vibrated in my pocket. It was from another client. "What time will you come for tomorrow's grave visit?" I stopped and typed a reply.

"I'll be there at ten o'clock. I'll bring the flowers."

I pressed send and started walking again. The lights of the Obon lanterns were beginning to glow everywhere.