Weeds

Weed

1. Miscellaneous plants and flowers that somehow take root in the sphere of human activity and share their lives with humans.
2. A metaphor for strong vitality.
3. Roadside plants and flowers whose names are not known or deemed not worth knowing.

In the village where I was born, depopulation had been progressing since I was a child. Actually, the population was small to begin with, and due to the aging population, there were hardly any people who could have children. Even so, it was a very peaceful village, always filled with the sound of many children playing. It was a small settlement located in the mountainous area.

So, why is it a village with so many children, you ask? Well, it's not that people moved here or anything like that. All these kids were born in this village.


The elementary and junior high schools in the village I attended at the time had many children as old as the number of adults in the entire village.
There were not enough teachers, and the adults who were available sometimes taught in their place. It was kind of funny and hard to stop laughing when the man from the house next door, who usually played with us, was seriously acting as a teacher.
I still can't forget the expression on his face, standing at the podium, smiling shyly.

One time I worked hard on my studies with my classmates, and another time we made funny faces at each other when the teacher wasn't looking, and were scolded in front of everyone when we were caught doing so. During recess, we would always go to the playground to play tag.

We were sent to and from school by our parents until early elementary school, but when we reached junior high school, we started going home with our friends. Kicking rocks, playing rock-paper-scissors with the rule that the loser gets to hold the baggage, I never thought going to and from school could be so much fun.
We would sometimes proudly show off the marks we were given instead of attendance numbers, like apples, cats, and various others. From kindergarten to middle school, it was the rule to identify individuals by those marks.
When it comes to the reasons for fights, it was usually when someone would pick flowers recklessly or trample through a meadow. Other times, it was just fighting over the game controller.
I really miss those days when I was happy or sad over such childish things.

There was even a rule that you were not allowed to leave the village until you graduated from junior high school, but I didn't really care about that.
Although it was small, there was an athletic meet and a cultural festival, and anyway, everyone got along well.
I was glad to have those children, I thought sincerely so. It was a fun school life.

I was very sad on the day of Graduation, but it is such a small village. We smiled and said goodbye, knowing that we would see each other again soon.
I left the village when I entered high school, so I have not seen those children since then, but I am sure they are doing well somewhere in the village.

I had parents, a house, and a proper name. But for the children who were not, the whole village took good care of them.
For those who were not yet born, everyone loved them, saying things like, “I want you to sleep well and grow up well.”, “Are they going to be okay in such a shady place?” and so on and so on.

As I recall, the first time I saw it properly was when I was about the age of kindergarten.
I had never seen a baby before. They were glossy, soft, and looked as if they would break just by touching. I was surprised when an adult took me to see it for the first time, but I immediately accepted it and begged my parents to go see those every day.


It's time to graduate from junior high school or, if you are an early child, around the fifth grade.

Suddenly, it pops.

The black, grainy things and an incomprehensible, semi-transparent, gooey substance that emitted an overwhelmingly sweet smell, almost enough to make one lose consciousness, were scattered around as those children burst and shattered in all directions.
We called it Graduation.
We picking up all the things that had once been our classmates that had fallen all over the place,
“Thank you for playing with me.”
“If you see me again, please be good friends.”
We would whisper these things to those children as we cried.

I still remember it clearly.
When I gathered my friend, who had collapsed into a state somewhere between liquid and solid, with both hands, I thought, “This child will never smile at me like usual again.”, “I will never be able to touch that beloved green skin again.” and so on and so on.
While feeling the faint warmth that still lingered, a mix of slight regret, loneliness, and, at the same time, a joyful emotion welled up inside me.
Because I had been taught back then, when I went to see it with an adult, that Graduation is a very joyous occasion.
“Congratulations, Graduation. Congratulations,” I said, tightly gripping my friend, who was stuck to my palm, and I celebrated their new beginning.

The sound of it crushing and squishing seemed to echo as if it were the final response. Watching it being dragged across the floor by the rag, it felt like the memories of this child were slowly sinking into our hearts.
The memories of the time we spent together rushed through my mind like a carousel of fleeting images.
Now that I think about it, that was the first time I experienced the death of someone close to me. Surrounded by the overwhelmingly sweet scent, with my friend stuck to my clothes, face, and both hands, I cried while laughing.

The things we gathered were all supposed to be handed over to the adults.
But, of course, the child at that age wouldn’t follow such rules, would you?


Here, look at this.
This was a friend of mine.
What does it look like to you?

medium.jpg

Yes, seeds.

You know those weeds that just sort of slither up from the cracks in the asphalt on roads and parking lots? The ones you don’t know where they came from, don’t know their name, but are strangely tough? You know what I mean, right?

Those children were all weeds.


Don’t you think they were lovely too? Small, yet strong, and fragile.
Before you knew it, they were growing by the rice fields on the way to school. Beneath the utility pole in front of the school. In the corner of the playground. They even grew in the garden once.
Anyway, those children were just like that.
Even though they were born special, to us, they were friends we played with, cute, adorable children.


Perhaps they grew naturally, or maybe the adults were scattering seeds like that around the village.
I know because I've seen it before, but that has a growth stage to it.
I wonder if the soil in the village was suitable for its growth?
Before I knew it, small stems and leaves that had sprouted here and there grew taller and stretched up into the sky in no time.
Weeds, you know, have a surprisingly strong vitality. Those were no exception.

About a month later, I’m not sure how to describe it, but a fruit shaped like a human and colored a pale green starts to appear.
A fruit with a thin membrane at the tip of the stem forms, and you can see the inside through the membrane. Occasionally, something seems to wriggle inside it. Could it be the first movements, like fetal movement? It’s slightly larger than a human head, maybe.
As soon as the membrane breaks and it falls to the ground with a soft thud, it lets out its first cry. It was just like a real human baby.


There were times when it was a familiar face.
In those moments, we would feel even more affectionate towards it, gather around, gently stroke its cheek, and whisper, “Good to see you back.”


The fruits born in that way were collected by the people of higher status in the village, and the whole village took care of them.
It was a place with little stimulation to begin with. For the adults, I think that was probably a kind of entertainment to distract from the monotony of their unchanging days.

You all must have grown plants as a hobby, right?
It's the same thing.


Name? There is no such thing, and we don't bother giving one.
Weeds don't need names, do they?

‡ Licensing / Citation
_jp_licenseboxinternationaltale
page revision: 19, last edited: 28 Aug 2025 06:42
Edit Rate (+4) Tags Discuss (1) History Files Print Site tools + Options
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License