That night, I set up the TV in the living room so I could watch the remote broadcast of the Kumiodori, Mekarushi.

Kento laughed, saying, "This story is just like dad!"

To which dad shoved Kento and said, "That guy and I may both have fallen in love at first sight, but I would never have hidden the Robe of Feathers."

Mekarushi was a farmer who came across an angel bathing in a spring, and he fell in love at first sight. In order to marry her, he had to steal her Celestial Robe of Feathers, and hide it from her. Without the robe, she could not return to heaven. She wailed and moaned, but finally she consented to marry Mekarushi. The couple had a child, and the angel lived as a wife and mother. One day, though, the daughter found the Celestial Robe of Feathers in the storehouse. The mother declared she would take the robe and return to heaven.

Together with the children, she sings the repeated refrains of a song of parting. Watching this scene, as the angel leaves for heaven, my mom dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

The broadcast of Kumiodori ended, and the living room grew silent. I decided to say what was on my mind.

"Mom has her own Celestial Robe of Feathers. I found it in the garage."

I told dad and my brother the whole story. My dad grew silent.

Mom said, "Ruri, how could I possibly go to France to study now? You can't think your mom could go abroad, leaving two teenage children behind!"

All dad could do was nod, with a forced smile on his face.

"That's not what I'm suggesting. I think you should take a break from being a mom, and go as Yamawaki Shōko."

I was completely serious.

"No way. That was all 17 years ago."

"Maybe it won't be possible, but couldn't you at least ask the pastry shop where you planned to go apprentice before? It might be a no-go, but at least you will have tried. Right, dad? You gotta dream big, right?"

Dad finally broke his silence to say, "I don't think you're being very realistic. Times like these, it won't be easy to get a visa...And, I can't imagine what life around here would be like without your mom. I ... I don't like the idea."

He spoke very softly.

"I'll be fine. I'm too old now to go studying overseas. If I were still a little younger," mom said, jokingly.

"Dreams have nothing to do with age I don't think. If you have a dream that never had a chance to come true, I think you should still give it a go."

Kento added, "You got that right, for once, sis!"

I could imagine all kinds of terrible things happening if mom went away for a while. Plenty to worry about there, but still I wanted to encourage her. Isn't that what makes us a family, why we're all together?

Not long after that, mom pulled out the old recipes and started baking pastries. Canelés, madeleines, tartes Tatin, crèmes brûlée, kouignoù-amann. She was going back in time, checking in with herself. The kitchen was always filled with sweet smells. She used to make these things sometimes when I was little. When she really did them right, her French pastries made me want to tell her to just go ahead and open a bakery, right away.

"All of a sudden I really just wanted to bake, out of pure nostalgia."

She kept insisting, though, that she wasn't going to go to France.

One day, I secretly peeked in the study-abroad papers, and I found the address of the patisserie where mom was going to go apprentice 17 years ago, and I contacted them. Thumbing my way through the French-Japanese dictionary, I composed a clumsy note asking if they wouldn't give my mom another opportunity. I had no idea why I couldn't let this go. Somehow, I had the feeling this was important for us as a family.

"Shō, it's been a long time since you made these delicious sweets for us," dad said, looking lonely as he stuffed his face with tarte Tatin, covered in browned apples. Apparently she had made him plenty of these when they were in school. When she was expecting me, she must have been disappointed to lose the opportunity to study in France, but it seems her joy was greater. Our life together now as a family of four was what made her truly happy. We all wanted life to go on like this for as long as possible. Eating his tarte Tatin, dad let us in on his thoughts, a little at a time.

"I think it would be just great if she could keep on making pastries at home, like she did back then."

Kento and I just looked at one another and sighed. We could both see that for dad, mom was his Celestial Robe of Feathers.

Around the time they started playing Jingle Bells in town, a long letter came, in French. They would be happy to have mom come and study with them, in the spring. I jumped for joy, but then I thought of dad, and my head started to hurt.

At dinner that night, I told everyone about the letter from the patisserie in France.

"Why did you do such a thing?"

"I'm sorry. I just wanted mom to have another chance, to do what she wanted to do. You really do want to go, don't you, mom? I can see it in your face."

"You just don't get it, do you, Ruri. For 17 years, I haven't been baking. If I go now, I will just be causing trouble for those people, don't you see?"

"But the letter said, 'Your mother's dreams have no expiration date.' We would definitely like her to come."

Mom pursed her lips tight, and hung her head. On the brink of tears, she said, "How could I possibly leave you guys?"

"We'll be just fine. It's dad you should worry about," Kento said, looking sidelong at dad, who seemed dumbstruck. Dad did not look good. He nibbled at the food left on his plate, and then he moved to the couch and turned on the TV.

Spring was still a few months away, and mom was sharpening her pastry-making skills. Some mornings we would find her asleep on the couch, and dad would quietly cover her with a blanket. The scene was a strange reversal of roles.

I have no idea if the two of them ever talked over the idea of mom going to France. But every morning one of the three of us would make breakfast. One day, I opened my lunch to find a strange-tasting vegetable stir-fry, with some yakisoba [fried noodles], and I could tell dad had made it. Time and distance and communication are all important. It may even be that that's what makes us a family. The flavors, the memories we have become accustomed to over the course of the many days of our lives, those may be what people mean to us.

On the last night before mom left, the four of us all spread out our futon in the living room and slept alongside one another. All I remember is, we talked about silly things, the way we did when we were kids. Like the time Kento got stung by a bee and cried for a whole hour, but he stopped when I stuck a piece of candy in his mouth. Or the time mom pretended to be a ghost, to scare us, and ended up seeing a real ghost. And the usual stuff about mom and dad's school days together.

We had told and heard these stories many times. No one outside our family would find them interesting at all. We were the people who shared these memories. If one of us were ever to forget something, or if the photos were to be lost, still these memories would remain in someone's head. They would protect us even if we were far apart from one another, even if we couldn't see each other. We were together so that, ultimately, each of us would be okay on our own.

After a while, we could hear dad start to snore.

"Mom?"

"What is it?"

"I just wanted to say your name."

"Ruri..."

"Mom... mom, mom."

How many thousands, tens of thousands of times did I want to say her name?

I might have been the one who pushed her to go on this journey, but starting tomorrow I wouldn't be able to just call out to her. That thought made something hot suddenly rise in my throat, and when it reached my head the tears flowed and wet my hair. Next to me, I could hear Kento sniffling. A strong spring breeze gusted through the screens to soothe us. I felt as if a new power was welling up from deep within my body, like the spring breeze rising up from the earth.

"It was a breezy spring day like this when I first realized I was carrying you inside me."

What an anxious night that must have been for the young couple: a sloppy storm of emotions -- happy, angry, fearful.

"Thank you, mom."

"This is just like the night before your wedding. This is not the last time we will see each other. Cut it out. You will find your goals. This is like a contest, between you and me."

My mom constantly amazes me.

"Huh? Ruri, you mean, you are the Robe of Feathers?"

Hearing my long story, Kaoru bit into her hamburger, which was the color of the evening sky. I am not one to brag, but my mom has been the angel of our island this whole time!

"Crap! The ferry!"

My watch said 5 o'clock.

"This time, I'm going too!"

We opened the door and ran toward the water. With the spring wind at our backs, our steps seemed lighter. From somewhere came the appetizing scent of browning butter.

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