Arrivals, Osaka Airport

Photo by Perry Merrity II on Unsplash

Years ago, my mother spent several years living in Japan. For a while, there was a driver who would meet us at the airport to take us to her apartment — until a bus line made that part of his job obsolete. He was the first person I met in Japan, and the rides with him are among my favorite memories of visiting.

It is the privilege of the international executive

that her adult children will be met

at the Osaka airport

by a driver holding a card with their names

(in Kanji and Roman alphabet.)

He leads them, gently,

through the last obstacles of the international airport

until they are settled in the back seat of a Lincoln Town Car

and everything is transformed into a low-pitched hum.

Jimmy Ota navigates onto the highway --

his driving touch so light they could be floating,

six inches over the heft of concrete.

He glances into the rear view mirror --

"Would you like a small beer?" he asks,

reaching into a space just to the left of his feet.

He offers a Sapporo, long and wide as my forearm,

with a theoretical smile

(face turned as it is to the road ahead)

and a slight bow of the head.

Thus tucked in, supported and refreshed,

he carries us over a series of bridges

to the place our mother now calls "home."