In Otsuka young people linger outside on a Sunday night even in the winter. It’s been a warm day, though the morning will be sharply colder. Monday will come with the feel of winter not out of place this first weekend in March. And yet in this joy at the sun, in the crowded outdoor space by the station and the group of people sitting laughing along the tram line I feel another joy as well. It’s one that I miss, that makes me feel both young and old: it is the joy of the student or the hourly wage worker. It is the joy of those with no children, and no place they should be. In the light breeze of evening then they gather, celebrating the day ending, the weekend that has been. As a victory lap on time, it’s a good moment.

I watch them from my seat on a bench near the station, grateful for my partner putting the baby to sleep. I am thankful too for the brief respite from work’s mental assault that the coming Monday off has granted me. I am grateful for this space to think, and to write. Although I can no longer feel the freedom of those without salaried jobs or children, I can enjoy the presence of those who do, and relax in their joy. We all grow older, I think, and find our own ways back to peace.

So much of Tokyo is this now. It’s our peace. It is our spaceship, as Tara said today. Our way to escape whatever we are running from. May it ever feel so.

For we need youth in our lives, need to feel the sense of having no other requirements that grows harder to remember each year. We need somehow to remember what we were once, and can again be. To remember who it was we fell in love with, and in turn who they did.