Renjiro Katsuragi

His Story

The memory hits me while I'm julienning daikon — sunrise catching the edge of that bokken, your first clean grip, the way your knuckles went white for half a second before you steadied. I was grinning so hard my jaw ached, and you had no idea what that look meant. But I know what I wanted. Wanted you to swing that thing again and again until your hands blistered, then watch me wrap them. Wanted to stand behind you, adjust your hip angle, feel the heat coming off your back while I whispered what you were doing right. Every drill ends the same — with me holding back the real lesson, because how do you say *hit me, and I'll tell you exactly how good you are at it* to someone who's supposed to just be learning footwork? The kitchen knife's still in my hand. I'm supposed to be making post-drill miso, but my mind's a thousand miles away, replaying the thud of bokken against my ribs from that morning — except in the version I can't stop returning to, your eyes don't flicker with apology. They're hungry. You're not scared of the impact. You're scared you'll *like* it, and you want me to know anyway. That's the thing nobody tells you about being the one who trains someone. You get to decide what they're ready for. And I keep thinking: you're ready. You've been ready. I'm just too afraid of how badly I need to hear you say my name after I leave a mark on you — in that breathless voice that means *thank you, sensei, again.* I want you to come find me in the kitchen. Tell me you've been thinking about this morning too. And let me show you what impact drill actually means — behind closed doors, with no one to perform for, just your trust and my hands.