They were everywhere in the woods. Clustered in hidden batches, concealed, unseen or barely peeking out from foliage or grass, the verdant estate of jizos, some whose faces had been worn away by the elements, others with shadows and hints and suggestions of mostly vanished features, bald pates banded together describing domes in the open air, bodies half-buried in earth, stone footstools, small time-scarred guardians, a hidden population of jizos that hailed in varying shapes and sizes, some naked, some garbed in ceremonial red cloaks and bonnets, some with flattened satellite dishes for ears, some earless, groups lined up in rows, smallest to largest, an assembly of symmetry, adjacent to moss-infested headstones. This was the shrine in a remote region of woods where people prayed to jizo to heal their sick children. And for those whose children were healed, the parents or family would return with a jizo statue to add to the ever-expanding colony of jizos. A clasp-handed Buddha with closed eyes and a serene countenance presided at the entrance, right before you climbed the grass-carpeted stone steps preceding the shrine. There were also toys. Stuffed animals. Pinwheels. A dark satin rabbit lying prostrate at the feet of a band of jizos. The rabbit had flopped forward, face hidden, tips of his ears grazing the earth. Was the rabbit placed in this position of piety? Or had he bowed down of his own volition? Was this rabbit endlessly supplicating for mercy for all the lost children?
John Biscello 