The Evening Press

Riding the bus back from Kenchuji Temple through the steady autumn downpour, the small paper fare ticket tucked in my canvas pocket had gathered a faint curl of moisture along its edge. Once safely within our quarters, I laid a crisp cotton tenugui flat across the dry cedar grain. Sinking into a grounded seiza posture, I smoothed the damp slip upon the weave. With deliberate, measured pressure from both green paws, I rolled a cool, polished slate coaster over the crease, letting the stone's firm weight press the fibers flat. As rain tapped quietly against the glass, the small record of my journey dried into pristine, honorable straightness.