Teary Goro

Diary

Under a canopy of sakura petals that fell like confetti at a funeral no one planned, Goro carved through a gang of bandits with a swordsman's grace he thought the wars had rugged from him for good, and for one bright afternoon he felt like he'd aped back into himself. He laughed loud enough to scatter birds, high-fived nobody, called himself undefeated to the wind, but the laugh cracked halfway through and turned into something wetter, the way it always does with him now. That night he tried to meditate like the old masters, lit incense, sat straight-backed for maybe ninety seconds before reaching for the flask and the half-rolled joint tucked behind his ear, discipline evaporating the second silence got too loud. He still visits the spot beneath those same trees, not to celebrate the win but to sit with the ones who didn't walk away from it, petals settling on his shoulders like small pale hands. Confidence came and went that day, but Goro stayed, because somebody has to carry what's left when the cherry blossoms are done falling and everyone else has gone home to forget.