When I first moved to Kirishima, I went to see a local fireworks festival that had returned after several years.
At the time, I could easily imagine why it had disappeared. The town has an aging population, and finding enough sponsors for an event like this couldn’t have been easy.
Because it was a small rural community, there weren’t many people watching. Families, friends, and neighbors sat quietly along the riverbank, waiting for the fireworks to begin.
Even so, there was something special in the air.
The excitement was real.
Even someone as unobservant as I am could feel how much this festival meant to the local people.
Then, at last, the fireworks began.
And before I knew it…
It was over.
Only a few dozen fireworks had been launched.
Having grown up watching large-scale fireworks festivals, my first reaction was,
“That’s it?”
But afterward, something stayed with me.
The peaceful silence.
The warmth of a festival created by local people, for local people.
It became one of the most unforgettable summer memories of my life.
Seven years have passed since then.
The festival has grown considerably.
The number of fireworks has increased, and many more people now come to enjoy it.
I’m genuinely happy to see that.
At the same time, though, I can’t help feeling that something has quietly changed.
The handmade warmth…
The simple charm…
The feeling that this festival could only exist here.
Little by little, those qualities seem to be fading.
Of course, that’s only natural.
I understand the hopes of the organizers and the local community.
Every event wants to grow.
Every town wants to welcome more visitors.
Yet I sometimes wonder what happens when a place slowly loses the character that once made it so special.
Years ago, I wrote about a simple cream-filled bread I ate in Kirishima.
I still remember it today.
Strangely enough, that memory and this little fireworks festival feel very much the same to me.
Back then, Kirishima had a character all its own.
It wasn’t something spectacular.
It was simply… Kirishima.
I’ve always felt that this is something worth remembering.
Of course, towns change.
People change.
Time moves on.
I understand that.
Still, I can’t help noticing how easily a place can begin to look like everywhere else.
This isn’t something unique to Kirishima.
It’s happening in towns and cities all over Japan—and perhaps all over the world.
I’m not saying,
“The old days were better.”
That’s not what I mean.
But there was something that existed only in those days.
A feeling.
An atmosphere.
A quiet sense of place.
And I believe it was real.
Perhaps every generation has experienced the same feeling—
watching something unique slowly change with time.
Perhaps that is simply part of life.
Still, I hope places like this never lose the warmth that makes them unique.
One day, what makes a place special may exist only in our memories.
When that day comes,
what will we remember?
And how will we feel?
I hope our little bar, Chiduru, never loses the warmth that makes it what it is.
I hope it will always remain a place where people quietly feel at home—
a place that could only be Chiduru.
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