August is the month of death in Japan, what with commemorations marking the 1945 atomic bombings (原爆記念日, genbanku kinenbi) of Hiroshima (the 6th) and Nagasaki (the 9th) coming early in the month, the shūsenkinenbi (終戦記念日, end-of-war memorial day) on the 15th and the Bon holiday (お盆, o-bon) — which is usually associated with the return of the dead — generally from the 13th to the 15th. The whole month is geared to remind everyone in Japan that even in the midst of life and summer's extreme heat, there is death.

Not that the Japanese are morbid about it. We know that elsewhere in the world (at least in the Northern Hemisphere), August means long, lazy days spent in bikinis and swimwear on the beach with nothing whatsoever to do except sip on a chilled drink every 30 seconds. OK . . . so? Most of us have gotten over our vacation-challenged inferiority complex (no, really!), and the fact that we make do with just two or three days off during Bon, which is not really a holiday because so much of it is spent in crammed trains and on jammed highways getting to and from our respective jikka (実家, parents' home). Once there, there's a pile of family and Bon duties to fulfill and ancestral tombstones to polish. And before we know it, the yasumi (休み, rest time) is gone, up in incense smoke like it never happened.

My grandmother used to say August was so eventful and busy it was better not even to think about taking time off. "Isogashikushite-inaito gosenzosama ni mōshiwakenai (忙しくしていないとご先祖さまに申し訳ない, It would be disrespectful to the ancestors not to keep busy)," was her way of putting it. While growing up, some Augusts felt as though we were either greeting the souls of the dead or sending them off, for this is also the month of o-sōshiki (お葬式, funerals). Statistics show that the ill and elderly are better able to withstand the cold than the intense heat and humidity of the Japanese summer. Consequently, this time of year it's kaki-ire-doki (peak business time) for Buddhist temples and sōgiya (葬儀屋, funeral homes) up and down the nation. On the fringes of my earliest memories of summer are the sight of adults going off to some o-tera (temple) or other, dressed in uncomfortable black suits and discreetly wiping sweat from their faces with freshly ironed handkerchiefs.