There is a rapidly disappearing ceremony of sorts begin every night in many homes in Japan and my apartment in Shinmei-cho.  It is the ritual which I take the cushion out of the closet, unfold it upon the floor, and my hands slowly spread and tuck the sheets.  I cover my mouth to hold back a yawn.  It is the sight of the fully made up futon that elicits the thoughts of darkness and dreams, closed lids and slightly opened lips.

Before laying down, I close the windows and shut the curtains.  Yet, the sounds of passing trucks and inebriated salary men filter through the single-pane windows.  Kneeling down on the tatami, I turn back the brightly covered pink comforter slid
 between the sheets.  The floor is a mere six inches from my back and there are no doubts, or thoughts of falling off the bed.  The room looks larger as I look up towards the ceiling, the cold air from a draft crosses my bare shoulders and I snuggle deeper under the covers.  The faint odor of  of tatami that long ago become associated with sleep pulls me gently into oblivion.

In the morning after I reach out my hand and turn off the alarm that sits on the floor beside my bed, I will roll over and slide open the glass door that leads to the balcony.  A wave of freshly chilled air will wash over my skin waking me more completely than a brimming cup of coffee.  I will curl upwards and on my knees leave the bed and as the Japanese mothers I have never known have done, I will fold and put away my futon.  An uncovered space of tatami flooring is all that's left of a night of sleep.  The room will once again be a place for living, a place to study, to work, to eat, to talk, to listen, to watch.