The trees are in bloom again and it's raining. Cherry blossom petals litter the sidewalks and gutters, some being clogged up with the pink petals. I take a walk in the rain. My hair is soon soaked by the rain. I like the way I think I look. A mess, walking, falling with the rain.
It's soothing, almost cleansing, but I know the rain is slick with oil. A mess. Sullied. Sick. Flowers don't smell like they use too. I bent down to smell a yellow tulip yesterday in the sun. Nothing. Empty. Gone. I used to like to drink the rain, with a wide open mouth pointed up to the sky, back when I was still a kid. The rain was clean then, or at least I like to think so.
I see a dog in someone's front lawn, hugging the closed door, whimpering, with a few soft barks. No one is out. Just the sounds o f cars rumbling by on other unseen streets. The heavy smell of exhaust fumes invade the air between the falling raindrops.
Rainbows in puddles. It's oil slick, dripped from those rumbling metal boxes, speeding by. Busy, busy, busy. Everyone is looking forward, not around, not outside at the trees, not at the blooming flowers, shrubs and other soaked greenery. I am beginning to shiver, feeling slushy all over. It is time to go home.
Sitting inside all warm and dry, I stare out my window, watching the cherry blossom trees. I watch them bending and bowing for the rain and wind. Pink petals are still falling. It is the only time that it could snow and rain together. I look on silently, smiling stupidly, at what I think no one else is watching.
YOU ARE READING
Cherry Blossom Trees in Spring
General FictionA "palm-of-the-hand" story about cherry blossoms and what the narrator observes, that no one else does.
