How Many More Times Will She Ask Me to Hold Her?

Last weekend, the Asia Tango Championship was held in Shibuya.

Old friends of mine were competing, each chasing their own goals.

Meanwhile, I was in Chiba, playing with Chii-chan.

My niece, who turns eight this year.

She's completely attached to me now, and every time we meet, she gives me an order from on high:

"Hold me."

We did the human Ferris wheel, shoulder rides, all kinds of games that put my body to the test.

Before I knew it, it was 3 p.m. to 10 p.m.

By the time she left, she collapsed onto the sofa as if someone had flipped her switch off.

No wonder—she'd spent the whole time doing pull-ups and upside-down spins on the chin-up bar at our house.

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It makes me wonder.

How many more times will she play with me like this?

How many more times will she say, "Hold me"?

It doesn't feel like such a distant future.

Several people asked me,

"Aren't you entering the tango championship?"

Honestly, I don't feel much pull toward it.

The old me would have chosen that without hesitation.

New encounters.

A lively venue.

The heat of it.

The challenge.

There's so much there that draws people in.

But these days, the time spent with my niece in the Chiba countryside feels more precious.

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It isn't a sacrifice.

It's a choice.

It's what I want, from the bottom of my heart.

Of course, I know this time won't last forever.

I've watched my older sister's eldest daughter since the day she was born.

When she was small, she followed me around like a duckling.

Until she was about fifteen, I'd look down and find her sitting on my lap.

As if that were her rightful place.

Now she's twenty-one.

We still talk when we meet, but she no longer clings to me the way she used to.

It makes me a little lonely, but that's how it goes.

That's how children grow—steadily, away from you.

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And that's exactly why I want to treasure this time we have together, and hold it gently while it lasts.

While she's still asking, I'll hold her with everything I've got.

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