Cherry Crush

As he turned the corner, a cool wind buffeted the branches. A spray of petals drifted towards the footpath, pale pink snowflakes settling on the wet asphalt. He stopped, drawing a shallow breath. It was too late. The last of the blossoms had already fallen.

Stripped of its decorations the tree stood tall, a faithful sentinel watching as he approached. Carefully sidestepping the thoughts racing through his mind, he avoided the pink smudges on the ground. The wind accompanied him, sending a chill through his lightweight jacket, constricting the weave around his heart.

The bench was empty. Drops of rain collecting like sparkling diamonds on the seat, the sun picking out each of them in turn.

They had parted ways here. The tree spying on their goodbyes through its thick green foliage. The bench capturing the lingering heat of their bodies after their departure. Since then, no contact.

Leaving had been brought up by her, agreed by both. Sustained by a tacit pledge to return before the last blossoms fell. A safety net of sorts, softening the goodbye, or so he had told himself. The deadline had been etched in the back of his mind, resurfacing each time he’d been faced with a new decision, confronted with a new path. Testing the safety net.

Had she been waiting? Her nature suggested she would but the best of intentions could be mislaid. 

Fragile memories coursed through his veins, tugging him in all directions except forward. He pulled the collar of his jacket tight, the wind nudging him closer. 

Staring at the crushed petals disintegrating into the shiny pavement, he exhaled. Tension evaporating into the spring air. The safety net quietly unravelled, stitch by stitch. Even if she had come, he had always known he would be late.

Inspired by the writing prompt: It was too late. The last of the blossoms had already fallen.

Copper Blossom

It was too late. The last of the blossoms had fallen. 

Five trees standing, four alive, three apple-cherries, two unspoiled. One - only one - had blossomed. 

The winds of the previous days had shaken the trees bare and the petals were strewn across the blackened landscape. Sweet pink stars studded the ground, coppery orange at the tips and in the middle. They would’ve held for a week or more if it hadn’t been for the winds. But if we’d waited longer, the others would arrive.

For now it was just us. We scrambled along the embankment, sliding on the black mud, avoiding the deep brown water below. We searched for whole flowers, not torn or tainted. We gathered loose petals as well, in case. 

One of the infected had sprouted dead blooms. The petals were withered grey, the centres blue-black. They looked like eyes all around the ground, watching everything we were doing. We tried not to look at them, you never knew. But it was hard, like when you just can't help staring at something you don’t want to see. 

The light came through the clouds, thin and whispery, not warm or golden like it used to be. She remembered. We didn’t.

“Stop!” she yelled. Her face hardened. We froze. He dropped the grey thing. It fell as if made of lead, not petal. His head dropped too and he stared at the ground.

“Not those”, her face softened, “Remember?” she said.

A breeze rushed in around us. We would need to leave soon.  

It was lodged in the tree trunk when it showed itself. It was the best one, the one we’d hoped to find. The petals were orangey-pink all over,  glistening rose-gold in sunlight. “It’s here, it’s here!” We found the Copper Blossom.

Sakura Season

It was too late. The last of the blossoms had fallen.

Had the Shinkansen not developed a technical fault on the way from Tokyo, had she not spent one more night drinking plum wine in Shinjuku, and had the wind fronts not battled on this day over the northern spot famed for its late blossoming sakura, she would have completed her assignment: to capture on camera, by sketch and in words, the tear-inducing beauty of the last day of bloom, and the embodiment of Spring/Summer for the following year’s Paris catwalks.

Like one of the pink popcorn flowers dancing around her feet, her moment had passed and she would be replaced before long by a new wave of fashion school progeny.

A wrinkled and delicately translucent face, resembling sweet chestnut, leaned towards her, brimming with friendliness. 

“Here, douzo, take this handkerchief. My name is Mamiko. Nice to meet you,” she said.

“A-Arigato,” replied the assistant.

“Follow me.”

They walked to a single-storey wooden house and entered through a sliding door. 

Mamiko disappeared momentarily and came back holding a slice of apple pie on a plate.

“Sit. Try this.”

The assistant admired the dome of glazed fruit as she cut into it with a fork. A rich scent of ripe apple filled her nostrils before the flavour spread across every corner of her taste buds.

“Mmm,” she murmured appreciatively.

Mamiko smiled and said, “Apple pies here are the best in Japan.” She shuffled over to a chest of drawers at the side of the tatami room, opened a drawer, and carefully lifted out a large piece of cloth covered in embroidery.

The assistant wiped a crumb from her lip and gazed at the fine tapestry of shimmering thread. Pale pinks, silvers and whites evoked a marvellous richness of cherry blossoms covering every millimetre of the fabric.

“My ancestors are artisans of embroidery,” Mamiko explained. “My grandmother, like you, was sad to see the last day of the blossoms. She designed this pattern so that she could be surrounded by sakura, even in the coldest, darkest months of the year. Here, take it, douzo. A gift.”

The assistant bowed her head and received the cloth with both hands.

“Now, come,” said Mamiko and led the way to a courtyard garden at the back of the house. Only after they stepped out onto the veranda did it come into view.

The sakura tree was small and perfect, like an oversized bonsai. The angled light made the blooms glow so that at first they seemed unreal, as if made from the same cloth as Mamiko’s.

“Planted by my grandmother,” said Mamiko proudly.

“The blossoms are white, not pink,” said the assistant.

“You see white so easily, because you have not spent centuries with the sakura as my family have done. Look carefully and you can see what is there.”

As they contemplated the tree, plump with blossom, their eyes adjusted to the light, and the soft milky pink hue emerged, pulsating with promise. They smiled at each other and the assistant reached eagerly for her camera.

“Take your time,” said Mamiko. “And welcome to my home. It is always sakura season here.”

Pink Perfect

It was too late. The last of the blossoms had fallen. The thing was - most of them had fallen on me.

This would never have happened in Dubai.

It should have been the crowning shot of my latest Blog ‘A pink-Perfect Day in London’. Target 25,000 likes.

 Me, photo ready and dazzling beneath a  giant flowering cherry  in Hyde Park, wearing faux pink fur and skyscraper white stilettos, biting cheekily on an oversized pink lollipop,  surrounded by pink and white beribboned store bags from my  ‘adventures’ in Bond Street….

…..Before being ambushed by the rain – ten trillion hissing demon-drops, wickedly assailing every last petal until, satisfied with their work, they departed. Leaving me sodden. My instant tanned legs were now  a caramel sundae garnished with blossom sprinkles, and the scary, hairy black caterpillar dangling over my right eye? A dislocated false eyelash.

My final Blog scene in a day of pink failure; I’d been politely escorted out of an upmarket Kensington Diner for filming raspberry pancakes, then shamed in Chanel and Louis Vuitton: surprisingly precious about ‘loaning’ me a few paper carrier bags.

Now in Hyde Park, a smugness of shapeless, showerproofed onlookers had gathered. All wanting to see a disintegrating Influencer.

Except for one, a little girl, holding out a bag of Percy Pigs.

‘Would you like a sweet, Miss? They’re pink.’

‘Pink!’

The seed of a chuckle started within my core and blossomed into a great surge of laughter, its  noisy waves washing over  the little  girl. She laughed. The crowd laughed. Laughter even tickled the last fragile petal of the great tree, until our merriment floated far across Hyde Park.

‘This would never have happened in Dubai.’ I yelled. ‘And that’s what I’m calling this Blog!’

Applause…….

Could still get those 25,000 likes.