六甲有馬ロープウェイ

Riding the ropeway down the mountain, I write a bad poem in my head about the chill in the air, my changing mind, and your presence next to me. The snow falls so heavily, the sky just white mist and the trees below us painted in it. People murmur around us quietly, voices low in the crowded car to match the mood. A little girl stares up at me, eyes widened at the curl of my hair and pallor of my skin. 

The three of us head to a tiny town at the base of the mountain, famous for its hot springs. It takes a long time to reach there, walking along the side of highways with cars zooming past, no sidewalks, then traveling down rickety stairs built into the mountain’s sides that have long been forgotten, navigating alleys until we burst into civilization. The lines are long, people bundled up in the snow, as the air smells of sulfur. After resting in the hot water among strangers, bare naked, skin boiled and red and raw, I head to the lobby and sit in a massage chair. It is the most relaxed and content I will likely ever be in life. You come to get me when you’re both done and the contentment dissipates like snow on the side of the road.

The hot spring and its 1,500 year old healing waters our only goal for the entire trip, we head back up through the alleys, back up the steep stairways that feel endless, back up the roads, walking through snow, towards the ropeway station. Despite the frigid air, we work up a sweat and our breaths come heavy.

Another ropeway ride, another poem. 

Our cabin is at the top of the mountain, a steep staircase from the ropeway that hovers over the town. Our feet ache and our fingers are frozen stiff. As we unwrap our coats, a friend lays out her tarot cards and bids us to join. 

Mine says about you, “This way leads to doom.” Stubborn and in denial, I write down her interpretation in the hopes that I can prove it wrong later.

At night, you and I leave our friend behind and walk around the cabin and the ropeway station, looking at the view of the city covered in twinkling lights. Not a word passes our lips and it is either peaceful or rageful. Just the icy slips of our boots, and the swish of our coats as we move. Every now and then I reach up to brush the snow off of my hood. 

Past midnight, when I can’t sleep, I sneak out for another walk in the snow. The steps are slippery and if I were to fall, no one would know. The trees reach up so high above my head, I imagine they go on forever. A couple on their own walk spots me and shuffles closer. They seemed as surprised at my Japanese as I am at their presence. In the low light, their faces are blurry and dark and I’m half-convinced they’re ghosts.

“There’s really nothing up here,” the woman says so quietly I have to strain to hear her. She glances back and forth down the streets filled with snow sludge. In the day, buses and taxis pass by, but now it is as quiet as death, with only a few flickering street lights in the black. A single taxi sits next to the ropeway station, but it is abandoned. “I’d be scared if I were alone.”

“I suppose,” I say. “It is peaceful, though.”

She squeezes her boyfriend’s arm, frowning, and glances at the glittering city miles and miles below us. “And beautiful. But what a scary fall.”

The next day, I shove the snow off of my car’s hood and blast the heater. I see the couple again in the distance and wave goodbye – the other two don’t notice them. I still can’t see their faces clearly. 

We pack our bags in the trunk, I drive us home and the quiet haunts our heels. It is no longer peaceful, but rageful. A month or two later, I will finally accept that my friend’s tarot card reading was right. We will never speak again, and I will commit the bad poem to paper.

Posted: Nov. 10, 2025