That fan is all white.

It was an evening after work. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I was looking at a Japan Sumo Association photo on my tablet. This wasn’t a moment from a bout. It was the calling of the wrestlers’ names.

The folds of the fan, the narrow ribs below them, the right hand holding it. I couldn’t see any writing or pictures on the white surface.

The explanation says the fan used by a yobidashi, called a hakusen, must be plain white. He opens it, directs his gaze towards its upper edge and calls the two wrestlers’ names.

The top edge. Oh.

I’d been staring at the middle of the white surface. I moved my eyes up a little, to the rim. Back to his face, then to the rim again. I’d meant to look at the fan, but now I was interested in the person holding it up, too.

The Association describes this gesture as a sign of care: avoiding soiling the ring or breathing on the wrestlers. Looking at the white fan alone hadn’t told me that.

Back to the photo. This time I looked at the outstretched hand and open mouth together. Even with the picture smaller, the white fan stood out. So that’s where his hand is.

When a wrestler’s name is called, my attention usually rushes straight to him. I want to see him. How will he do today? I’d been listening to the calls, but I hadn’t often spent this long looking at the yobidashi’s hand.

There’s no sound in a photograph. But that wide-open mouth brings back the sound of a name ringing out, stretched across the air. Even the little flutter of waiting for a wrestler I love to watch.

I held the tablet a little farther away and looked at the whole picture. White fan, right hand, face. Ah, my eyes still go back to the white. Tonight, I’m finding it hard to move on from the person doing the calling.