Every morning in Japan,somewhere,a mother wakes up at 5 AM.Not for her job.For a lunchbox.She boils a small eggand carves it into a rabbitwith two thin slits of nori for ears.She cuts a piece of sausageand turns it into an octopus.She arranges twelve tiny dishesinside a box the size of a postcard.Her child is eight years old.Her child will eat this in ten minutes,laughing with friends.Her child will never say thank you,because a child never does.But when her child is forty,sitting at a desk in a foreign city,she will open a cheap plastic sandwich,look at it,and cry.Because in that moment,she will rememberthe rabbit eggher mother made herat five in the morningfor twelve years in a row.That is what a lunch is.