Member-only story
The Gift of My Life
A story about Shintoism
When I was a little girl, I was afraid of the stick monster. Every night, I heard him, clomping with the blunt end of his stick down the darkened sidewalk across the street from our house. I’d peer out the window, focusing hard, trying to discern through the thick, black night the image I knew was there. A stick, a bundle of sticks, a ghostly grey being hunched over a stick, somehow threatening me.
I called for my father, when he was home from sea. He’d sit at the foot of my bed and keep me company for a while. After dutifully looking out the windows for me and assuring me there was no imminent danger he could ascertain, he’d stay and talk with me.
One night, he taught me about infinity. We were talking about the stars, and how many there were. About space, and how far it went. My father sat in the dark with me, his gigantic hands folded in his lap, and told me there was no end, and that that was “infinity.”
My mind stuttered. I said, “But, there must be an end! There must be a wall! or something!”
After a moment, my father said, gently, “Okay. What’s behind the wall?”
I said, with conviction and not a little stubbornness, “Another wall.”
“And what’s behind that wall?” my father said.
