Spring has an obvious way of making its presence known here on the West Coast. Cherry blossom trees erupt—literally erupt—all over the city.
I find cherry blossom trees completely magical—almost otherworldly. The way they unexpectedly burst into a symphony of exquisiteness, seemingly one day to the next. They make plain, ramshackle houses look like palaces. Worn down city streets suddenly sparkle with pink blossoms swirling about like fairy dust.
And the colors! Fat succulent blossoms of softest blush, spun cotton candy, and my favorite—the unabashedly lavish cerise blooms, as bright as a package of Double Bubble chewing gum.
Two weeks ago, we moved into a new house. And by new, I mean 30 years old. So we’re in renovation mode, attempting to turn this mauve carpeted, sponge painted box into a home. Until then, exposed plywood floors, dangling light switches, and a spirited two-year-old who always ALWAYS manages to locate the power drill are part of our day-to-day.
To be honest, it’s a bit of a disaster.
But I have this tree. In my front yard. It was bare when we moved in. But as I saw other trees along the street sprouting their velvety blooms, I got excited. Maybe this scraggly mess was a cherry blossom tree? Perhaps I’ll wake one morning to find it wreathed in a rosy halo. How perfect would that be?
In the midst of the rubble and drywall and that murky brown and yellow room (yes, poop-colored), here will be my sliver of heaven.
And so I waited. Expectantly.
Everyone else’ front yards yielded to the mystery that is the turning of the seasons, their trees adding to the hazy cloud hovering delicately over the worn asphalt. Except my tree. My tree did not yield. Well, it sprouted some completely run of the mill buds. But then nothing. And now I’m annoyed with this stupid tree.
Because I kind of feel like this stupid tree.