Summer Fireworks and a Presence

There are nights from childhood that return to me now and then.  Sometimes, when the air grows heavy with summer heat, I remember that night.  I don’t remember exactly how old I was—probably not yet five.  The memories are fragmented, hazy, like something half-dreamed. But the feeling of that night still lingers somewhere deep under my skin.  Not as words or images, but as something that sank into the body itself. 

That evening, we visited relatives on my mother’s side.  Many in that family were doctors; one of them specialized in forensic medicine—work that meant facing the dead. At the time I didn’t even know what the word “forensic” meant. All I knew was that the adults around me carried a world I couldn’t yet understand.  The significance of their professions, I would only grasp much later.  

That day, there was a fireworks festival by the river. We gathered at the house to watch, and the evening was filled with voices and anticipation. I must have been excited, waiting for the fireworks. Yet strangely, I retain no memory of the fireworks themselves.  

What I do remember is a single voice:  

“They found a body by the river. I have to go.”  

I can’t recall who said it, or what expression they wore. I don’t remember fear or alarm in the room.　Perhaps for the adults, this was nothing unusual. But something entered me in that moment—quietly, without sound.  

Until then, death had not existed in my world. My grandparents were alive; I had never lost anyone close.  At five, death wasn’t something distant or abstract—it was nonexistent. But that night, it slipped silently into my living space.  

I cannot explain it in words. The air didn’t change; no one fussed; they faced it with the calm of professionals. And yet, death was suddenly near. Not as wind, not as sound, not as anything visible. Just a subtle presence, brushing against my skin without touching— as if it pressed quietly at the rim of my own presence.  

Looking back, I think that was the first time I ever sensed the presence of death. Even now, when I recall that night, I remember no fireworks. Only that presence remains, alive somewhere inside me— the night I first felt, with my own skin, the existence of what cannot be seen.