It is said there are three springs in that area - two of which began within what was Negishi Heights. The land was once fields and farms, so maybe it was the water of these springs and rivers that fed the livelihoods of local landowners – before that land was razed for grassy hills and townhouses, terraced using dirt from the racetrack, and bulldozed into sloped streets that until recently I called Skyline Drive and Racetrack Road.

The rivers were buried into culverts by the city in the 1960s amidst population growth. The water now flows underground through the valley and is fed out to the sea. Very smart people have found intersections, paved sidewalks winding through residential areas, and the occasional footbridge over where this water once flowed. All this I have only heard. And at one time was keen to verify. Since I too used to walk those same streets to school and never knew of the rivers beneath my elementary feet.

When mentioning Negishi Heights, “I thought it had already been returned” is a reasonable response. Why wouldn’t a closed, half-demolished military housing area already be returned. But it was only closed, existing in the palm of the handshake between owners. And while it was still the navy’s, I had a reason to be there. While it was gone to many, it had never been more alive to me, in those five years when I truly came to know it.

The demolition, it was inescapable like summer heat. No place to hide; cornered and yet lost. Disoriented, like climbing a staircase with uneven steps, always tripping on what I thought I knew. It was bright, holes where houses once stood like a smile without a front tooth. It was loud, like endless crushing of Styrofoam and bubble wrap. And the wheezing of excavators, like a crying baby miles away. It echoed across the hills, the half-gutted duplexes, and tree stumps soaked in spring rain. I hid beneath an umbrella when it rained but never could from the sun in July. The floor always fell from beneath my feet. For a year, I couldn’t even look at the place. Repelled, like every gust of wind was pushing me away. Yet so determined to stay – to stare, to hold my gaze, to never blink. To grab the barbed wire and shake the fence. To hold my breath. Now I can’t even remember where the houses were.

Today, it is June 30^, 2026. A Tuesday. Another typhoon has passed, but the sky isn’t blue and cloudless. Overcast, with a high of 28. I arrive as salary workers prepare for their commute. Bicycles pass, the rattle of trash bins and sweeping in the street fill the air. I circle the base, below the cliff, up Inari Hill, through the cemetery, and towards Fire Station 5. I walk the park, where paths crossed; they’re mowing the grass. I walk where the rivers are buried, where I’m alone.

Sweat streams down my face and drips onto dirt and asphalt. The crows are feral, but the wind brings relief. It cools my back. Looking in from the fenceline, I fold it all together like a handkerchief, one end to the other. My confidence is gone. My feet ache, because this is a hard hill to climb, and I tower over these streets – like I’ve outgrown it. My eyes race, dotting the landscape, dodging glances, trying to connect the dots, still looking for something I forgot. But today, my fists are clenched a little lighter. My head spins less. My fingers grip the fence more gently. And I only spend fifteen seconds in front of the gate. I don’t lean, I don’t press, I just step. And I still can’t breathe, but at least I can exhale.

Rivers rise and rivers fall. Some find lakes, others find the sea. Some dry, some flow quietly beneath our feet. But somewhere in between the highs and lows, in the floods and droughts, there is a time for joy and a time to heal. And that alone, I think, makes it worth watching the river, even when I don’t know if it was ever real.

On June 30, a paper was signed somewhere in the halls of an administrative building. An announcement was made in a meeting between bureaucrats in a big room on a high floor. Printed articles circulated for a day, on the television, the radio, too maybe. And now letters will be delivered. Signs replaced. Maps redrawn. And in many years’ time, it’ll look like change. It will feel like change.

But if history has taught me anything, it’s that there’s no loss. There’s no change. Really, it’s just less the same.

Yokosuka Naval Base

Yokota Air Base

Naval Air Facility Atsugi

Camp Zama