Four years ago, my family lived together in our pretty hometown, Hatsukaichi, which is wrapped up between the peaceful, glittering sea and the rough, brilliant mountains. We could see the small floating Island, Miyajima, from my room's veranda. When I stood there, I could smell the aromatic rhythmical sea breeze. Miyajima is famous as one of the most beautiful places in Japan, and looks proudly over both the invariable might of the scarlet, welcoming gate, Torii, and the fragile beauty of the sanguine maple valley. The area changes markedly with the seasons, so we enjoyed various aspects of the beauty of nature. In spring, we relished seeing a flurry of falling cherry blossoms. In summer, we heeded the frail, sleepless cicadas, which, being reluctant to leave, cried shrilly all night long. In autumn, we gazed at the fleeting leaves wandering from place to place. In winter, we enjoyed having a snowball fight and making a snowman on a winding narrow slope. Around our house, there was an assorted vegetable garden with vivid colors and friendly meek-eyed carp in a pond. We could get tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, potatoes, spinach, peas, leeks, green peppers, watermelon, and Japanese persimmons from our garden. Our yard was like a full jewelry box, and our kitchen was like a magic box. When I saw the evening glow of sunset, I could smell delectable rice. At our dining table, there was plenty of joy. It was like a treasure of delicious food. The tender, smooth oyster tasted like rich milk, and the sleek, bright raw fish enchanted us. Over our luscious meals, mischievous conversations hopped among us like sparrows in a yard. I could see my father's stern, gutsy wrinkles, my mother's charitable, smooth smile, my brother's comical, haughty dimple, and my sister's blooming pink cheeks. These peaceful scenes of both my hometown and my family always give me not only sweet nostalgia, but also positive, warm energy.

 

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