She looks ordinary, and she hides behind a partition tucked away in a corner of the community center library. Despite that, Ms. Komachi brings out the innermost feelings in whomever happens to stand in front of her counter.
The last person to do so in What You Are Looking For Is in the Library is Masao Gonno, a 65-year-old recent retiree. It’s only been a few months, but Masao isn’t exactly enjoying his newfound time. “I don’t know what to do with it,” he admits to Ms. Komachi. “The remainder of my life feels meaningless.”
Ms. Komachi has a habit of sounding like she does not understand people’s issues at all. But then, somehow, she always seems to say something deep that’s relevant to their problems. Kind of like a child would, by offering a completely new perspective on the topic. It happens with Mr. Masao, too.
“What do you mean by ‘the remainder’?” she asks him, and Masao must admit: He doesn’t really know either. “What do I mean by ‘the remainder’?” he asks himself. Out loud, he answers matter-of-factly: “The left-over part, I suppose. What remains.”
Then, it’s Ms. Komachi’s time to shine: “Let’s say you ate ten Honeydome cookies from a box of twelve. Would the last two be ‘remainders’?”
This throws Masao for a loop. He worked for Kuremiyado, the company making the Honeydome cookies Ms. Komachi talks about, for more than 40 years. “This question,” he suspects, “touches on the heart of the matter, but as I don’t feel capable of voicing my answer, I keep mum.”
Eating 10 out of 12 cookies means you’ve finished 83% of the box. But do the last 17% really become just “a remainder?” Why would they? They’re the same cookies as the other ten. They taste the same. They last just as long. And, hopefully, they’re also just as delicious.
If Masao has already lived 83% of his life, that means he has 12 years left. Are those 12 years worth less than the prior 65? What makes them “the left-over part?”
Sometimes, I make spaghetti bolognese for my fiancée and I. The next day, we eat “the leftovers.” She likes the pasta better on the second day because most of the sauce has been soaked up by the noodles. If the leftovers taste better than the fresh dish, aren’t they more of an upgrade?
Time. Noodles. Cookies. Each next unit of something precious is as valuable as the last. Don’t split life into “the good stuff” and “the rest.” Taste every moment to the fullest, and you’ll never fret about when your sweet treats might run out.
