私の足は女性にしては大きく、亡き父の足に形状もそっくりである。それに初めて気づいたのは、葬式の準備で亡骸を清める儀式（「湯灌の義・ゆかんのぎ」）をしている時だった。
歩行するのに無ければ最も不便なのが足であるが、人間の身体的な特性上、目から最も遠いのも足である。普段あまり目につくこともないため、このお清めの儀式を通して初めて父と自分の足が瓜二つであることを知った。

このように、それまでただ足としてしか認識していなかった自らの足が、代々受け継いだ身体の一部として自覚してようやく、自身にもやがてやってくる「限り」がにわかに現実味を帯びた。
身体の消滅も、ものの終わりである。そう捉えるなら、そこに蓄積された歴史が少しずつ失われていく流れもまた、自然である。足形に染めた雑巾とふきんも、むしろ朽ちていく過程こそが、時間に伴う「限り」として視覚に刻まれると推測する。

My feet are large for a woman, and their shape closely resembles that of my late father. I first became aware of this while performing the ritual of cleansing the body before the funeral (yukan-no-gi), a traditional rite in which the deceased is washed and prepared.

Feet are indispensable for walking, yet because of the physical structure of the human body, they are also the part farthest from the eyes. Since they rarely draw our attention in everyday life, it was through this act of purification that I first realized how strikingly similar my father's feet were to my own.

In this way, my feet—until then perceived simply as feet—came to be recognized as a part of a body inherited across generations. Only then did the inevitability of an ending that will one day come to me begin to feel suddenly real.

The disappearance of the body is also the end of a thing. If understood in this way, the gradual loss of the history accumulated within it may also be seen as natural. The cleaning cloths and dishcloths dyed with my footprints will likewise deteriorate over time, and I imagine that it is precisely through this process of decay that the “limit” imposed by time will be inscribed visually.