じいちゃんと煙草

僕のじいちゃんは長崎県の対馬というところに暮らし漁師をしていた。

ほとんど島から出たこともないじいちゃんはその地域で一番古い船に乗り雨の日も風の日もなんなら台風の日も一人海に出ていた。

決まって相棒は煙草で思い出すその姿のほとんどは煙草を咥えているじいちゃんの姿。朝、海から帰ってくるじいちゃんを迎えに港へ。その日釣ってきた魚たちを見るのが何よりも楽しみだった。

普段はほんとうに優しく穏やかなじいちゃん。怒られた記憶もほとんどないが漁の時はうってかわって厳しい男の顔に。ただその姿はいつも愉しそうだった。

小学生、中学生、高校生と毎年夏休みは対馬で過ごすのが常だったが大学生になり故郷を離れるとその回数は少しづつ減っていた。

ただたまに電話で話すじいちゃんの声はいつも元気で優しくてそんな時もたぶん片手にはいつも煙草があった。

僕が就活のときじいちゃんが肺癌で倒れた。それから亡くなってしまうまで時間はそれほどに残されてなく亡くなったその時も、お葬式にも東京での面接が被ってしまい立ち会う事が叶わなかった。

看取った母の話に聞くと亡くなる最後の最後まで漁に出たがり煙草も恋しがっていたらしい。

じいちゃんにとって漁師とは側からみれば「仕事」ではあるがじいちゃんの中でのそれは仕事なんて言葉では収まらないもっと別のところにあった様に思う。暮らし、はたまた人生そのもの。全てが繋がった切り離すことのものとして存在していた。

僕自身にとって「珈琲」というものがじいちゃんにとっての「漁師」と同じものになれるかはまだ分からないし、それは当人が亡くなった後に周りの親しい人たちが感じることであるのかもしれない。ただその姿に、暮らしに人生に少しでも重なることが出来たらなとそう思う。

就活が終わり船に乗り対馬へ。じいちゃんのお墓に向かう道中、人生で初めての煙草を買って墓石の前で咳き込みながらなんとか一本火をつけてお供えをした。その時にようやくお別れできたんだと思う。

その時に就職した会社も今では辞めてしまって暮らす場所も都心を離れた。

その時には想像もしてなかったけれど結婚もしていまは遠い長野の地で二人暮らしている。

自分たちの暮らしを少しでも自分たちの手で。

春には土を耕し種を植え、山に入り木を切り出し、実りの秋に収穫し、薪ストーブの火をそっと灯す。

ここ黒姫での暮らし。

僕はいま32歳、じいちゃんが生きた人生でいったらまだ1/3。その姿に少しは近づけていけるだろうか。

あの日愉しそうだった笑顔。そんな姿で暮らしを紡いでいけたら。

 

…

 

『Grandpa and Cigarettes』
 My grandpa lived on Tsushima Island in Nagasaki Prefecture and worked as a fisherman.
 He had hardly ever left the island. He sailed out alone in the oldest boat in the area, rain or shine, even during typhoons.

 His constant companion was his cigarette. Most of my memories of him are of him with a cigarette in his mouth. In the morning, I'd go to the harbor to meet Grandpa when he returned from the sea. Seeing the fish he'd caught that day was my greatest joy.

 He was usually a truly gentle and calm man. I hardly ever remember him getting angry, but when fishing, he transformed into a stern man. Yet, he always seemed to be enjoying himself.

 Every summer vacation, from elementary school through high school, I always spent my holidays on Tsushima. But after leaving home for college, those visits gradually became less frequent.
 Still, whenever I spoke to him on the phone, his voice was always energetic and kind. Even then, he probably had a cigarette in one hand.

 When I was job hunting, Grandpa collapsed from lung cancer. He didn't have much time left after that, and when he passed away, I couldn't attend the funeral because it conflicted with a job interview in Tokyo.
 According to my mother, who was with him at the end, he wanted to go fishing until the very last moment and seemed to crave his cigarettes.

 For Grandpa, being a fisherman was, to outsiders, a "job." But for him, it wasn't something that could be contained by the word "job." It existed somewhere else entirely. It was his livelihood, perhaps even his very life itself. Everything was connected, existing as an inseparable whole.

 I don't yet know if "coffee" can become the same thing for me that "fishing" was for Grandpa. Perhaps that's something only those close to him can feel after he's gone. Still, I hope that somehow, in some small way, my own life and work can overlap with his.

 After finishing job hunting, I boarded a ship bound for Tsushima. On the way to Grandpa's grave, I bought my first-ever cigarette. Coughing in front of the tombstone, I managed to light one and offered it as an offering. I think that was when I finally said goodbye.

 I've since left the company I joined back then and moved away from the city center.
 I never imagined it back then, but I'm married now and living with my partner in distant Nagano.

 We strive to shape our lives with our own hands, even just a little.
 In spring, we till the soil and plant seeds; we go into the mountains to cut wood; in the fruitful autumn, we harvest; and we gently light the fire in our wood stove.
 This is our life here in Kurohime.

 I'm 32 now—just one-third of the life my grandfather lived. Can I get a little closer to that?
 That smile, so full of joy that day. If only I could weave my life together with that kind of spirit.