Cherry Blossom Dreams
by Adrienne Clarke
Last night I dreamt of cherry blossoms again. The soft pink flowers trembled overhead, scattering petals that caressed my face and neck. I felt the shape of your body beside me, and you whispered in my ear. “Did you ever see anything so beautiful?” I let the sound of your voice wash over me, as you described the different varieties of cherry trees. Yamazakura, somei yoshino, shidarezakura and your favourite, kanhizakurawere, with its unique bell-shaped petals and intense fuchsia colour. Low and soft-spoken, your gentle accent reminded me that despite all we had in common, we came from different places. I smiled and shook my head, but when I reached out for you the trees disappeared and I woke up in our bed alone. When I got up to look out the window there wasn’t a single blossom in sight. Just the familiar shape of tall, concrete buildings blocking out the night sky.
The trip to the cherry blossom festival in Kyoto was meant to be our gift to each other. We planned to celebrate our twentieth anniversary picnicking on the grounds of Nijo castle. Born in Kyoto, you visited the festival every year as a boy and dreamed of returning there with your Canadian wife. I longed to visit your childhood home as much as you longed to show it to me. I wanted to see you surrounded by remnants of your boyhood; look at old photos, meet your beloved Oji and Oba and visit the places you loved before we met. It was hard to imagine the parts of your life that didn’t include me, and I wanted to know them all. Once you were gone all I thought about were the questions I never asked. Was there a girl in Kyoto who had a claim on your heart? Where did you have your first kiss? Did you still dream in Japanese?
In our cramped one-bedroom apartment, with a view of Yonge and Dundas and the constant sound of sirens, we lived for our weekly visits to the park. You knew the names of every flower, tree and bush and we would spend the day sitting side by side on a wooden bench sketching our surroundings in notebooks bought from the dollar store. Afterwards, we’d exchange books and take our time studying each other’s work. The superior artist, you always found some line, light or shape in my drawing that made me feel like I’d captured something rare and beautiful. Sometimes, you’d be unhappy with your own work, and try to throw it away, but I retrieved every single drawing, smoothing it out with my hands and pressing it back into your book. I retraced your lines with my fingertips, imaging the quick movements of your pencil. Your sketches made me want to see the world through your eyes. You found beauty in the ordinary things most people overlook. You found beauty in me.
When we finally saved enough money for our tickets to Kyoto, you were only a little sick. “Nothing to worry about,” you said in the calm, reassuring voice I never questioned. So, we made our plans, you carefully arranging our itinerary so we could see the trees in full bloom. “Timing is everything when it comes to sakura,” you explained. “The trees are so delicate, an unexpected cold spell can delay the bloom, and strong wind or rain can shorten their flowering.” I nodded eagerly, wanting to share your enthusiasm, your unwavering belief that the sight of the cherry blossoms was all the medicine you needed. But when the shadows under your eyes darkened and your breath grew short after climbing the stairs to our apartment, I begged you to postpone. “Don’t worry, darling,” you said. “I’ll be better, I promise.” It was the only promise to me you ever broke.
I didn’t know much grief would feel like fear. A new, creeping darkness followed me around the apartment, seeping into my veins as I went through the motions of living. I stopped going to the park, unable to bear the sight of the trees and flowers you loved so much. I hated every leaf and petal for being fresh and alive when you lay in a cold dark place beyond my reach. Without you by my side the world was a different place. The sun dimmed, casting shadows where there once was light. When I woke up in the morning, I no longer thought of beginnings, only the cruel passage of time moving you father away from me.
The day I got the email, with plane tickets and travel itinerary attached, my whole body went numb. In my fog of despair, I’d forgotten all about the trip to Japan. It seemed a lifetime ago that we sat at our scarred kitchen table planning our visits to temples and teahouses and of course the cherry blossoms. I stared at the screen, my hand hovering over the keyboard. My first instinct was to simply delete the message – make it disappear – never think of Japan or cherry blossoms again. I had no hope or plan for the future beyond making it through another day. But in the end practicality won out. We’d saved long and hard for that trip. Maybe, I could get some of it refunded.
I closed the message and waited two full days before opening it again. ‘Welcome to Kyoto’s Cherry Blossom festival!’ was the subject line. Without thinking, I clicked on the links the tour company had provided. Images of pink and white cherry blossoms filled my screen, illuminating the dark apartment. I clicked through the photos, marvelling anew at their ethereal loveliness, and closed my eyes, imagining your arms around me, pointing out the blossom’s colours, textures, and scents. “You must see the sakura, Sarah,” I heard you whisper. “Everyone should experience that kind of beauty once in their life.” And so, with your voice in my ear, I packed my bags and made the journey to the other side of the world where I hoped to find you again in the cherry trees you loved so much.
Kyoto in March was much colder than I imagined. I stood in the middle of the economy hotel room where everything was neat and spare, wrapped in your favourite wool sweater. Still, I shivered, unable to get warm. The closer I came to the place we dreamed of the more my fear grew. What if it wasn’t like I imagined? What if I didn’t feel the same magic that had engraved the trees on your memory? But what I feared most was that I wouldn’t feel you there. At home, in Toronto, you were lost me, but there in the place you were born, I longed to close the distance between us. Like the heroine in a fairy tale, I would follow your trail of dreams through Kyoto’s cobblestone streets until I found my heart’s desire.
The tour guide’s name was Happy (the actual English translation from Japanese), and she lived up to her name with her bright smile and short. cheerful sentences. “Today will be filled with much happiness!” The tour was made up of mostly couples, but I wasn’t the only person travelling alone. Two single women and a lone widower rounded out our group, but I was acutely aware of my solitude as our group huddled in the entrance of Kyoto station. When we boarded the train, I instinctively reached for your hand only to remember you were gone. I would never hold your hand again.
During the short train ride to Nijjo Castle, Happy told us about the history of the cherry blossom festival; how it had evolved from the ancient farmers who used the flowers to help them understand when it was time to plant their crops to a yearly celebration of eating, drinking, and viewing the cherry blossoms. Happy clapped her dainty hands together and smiled at us with genuine warmth. “Later we will have a picnic on the castle grounds, and you will see how much we love our sakura!”
Anxiety fluttered in my chest, and I tried to pay attention to the conversation drifting around me. The usual tourist comments about the cleanliness of the hotel room; what they had for breakfast; the quality of the coffee and of course the weather. I listened, nodding politely in the right spots, my thoughts solely focused on the sights ahead. When we got off the train, I found myself blinking in the sudden brightness. The march air was crisp and cool, but I was finally comfortable inside your jacket. Most of the clothes I brought with me were yours. They still carried your scent; a mixture of honey and lemons and the indescribable essence of your skin that always made me want to pull you close.
We started walking towards the castle. Happy was speaking again, explaining how the grounds were a UNESCO world heritage site, but I was only half listening. I closed my eyes and tried to picture you as a young boy, running across the grass, your dark eyes shining with excitement. Or perhaps you walked quietly beside your mother, holding her hand. You didn’t tell me that part of the story. I wished you had. I felt like someone who hadn’t eaten in days, except it wasn’t food I craved. If I couldn’t have you, I wanted all your memories so I could hold them close and keep them safe forever.
Determined to educate us on the cultural importance of the cherry blossom, Happy explained that the aristocrats of days gone by often wrote poetry or painted pictures to celebrate the beauty of the cherry blossom. I thought of your sketchbook of drawings; the beautifully detailed pictures of flora and fauna from our park at home, and all the pages you had left to fill. Spring was your favourite season. You looked forward to the budding trees and the blades of grass poking up between the drifts of snow the way some people looked forward to a sun vacation or a new car. You never minded the nearly constant rain that I complained made me feel tired and blue. When the sky grew dark, you’d put your arms around me, and we’d stand in front of the window watching the rain until I felt safe and warm again. Who will watch the rain with me now? Who will put their arms around me when I’m sad?
A stray petal fell on my head and slid down my cheek – the gentlest of caresses. “I’m here, Keiko,” I whispered softly, but I felt no answering presence. Even there, in the place of your birth, surrounded by the flowers you loved best, I felt only your absence. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up. I turned around in a slow circle, taking in the sheer abundance of flowers Happy called ‘hanagasumi’ which meant ‘flower haze.’ And tilting my head up to the trees, drinking in their delicate scent, I did feel like someone in a haze. My head was a confused jumble of half-formed thoughts and memories that seemed to scatter with every breath. I wished I could lay down on the ground and relieve every moment of our life together until I was covered in a blanket of pink and white. It wouldn’t take long. In a few short days, the cherry blossoms would go from a spectacle of nature to a withered shadow of their former glory. The petals would fly until the grounds resembled a ‘sakura-fabi,’ which means cherry blossom snowstorm. See how much I remembered of what you taught me? You believed the cherry trees’ short life span was what made them so special. “Nothing should be taken for granted,” you said. “Sakura is a reminder to be present – to see the world in all it’s fragile loveliness.”
But at that moment, the trees were in full and perfect bloom, and I wished I could hold the moment and stop all that beauty from leaving me. If you were there, you would have told me to enjoy the blossoms without fear. “Their time will come again, Sarah,” I heard you whisper.
I gazed at the trees, trying to be grateful for all the days they bloomed. I watched the sun filtering through their branches casting an almost supernatural pink glow that illuminated everything around them. Soon the blooms would scatter, and I’d be gone, and I wished with all the shattered pieces of my heart that you were with me. If you were, I’d gather up every last petal, each one perfect, unique and lay them gently at your feet.
A week later, on my way to the airport, I stopped to see the trees one last time. I thought the sight of their faded splendour would make me unbearably sad but looking at the darkening petals I finally felt you beside me.
BIO
Adrienne Clarke’s writing dream began with a childhood love of fairy tales that made her want to create her own stories. Since then, she has written short fiction, novels, poems (and quite a few fairy tales) in between.
A graduate of the Toronto Humber School for Writers, Adrienne’s work has appeared in numerous publications including, New Plains Review, Silly Tree Anthologies, Literally Dead: Tales of Holiday Hauntings, Beach Shorts, The Devilfish Review, Carmina Magazine, and the Long Island Literary Journal. Her first YA novel, Losing Adam, garnered a silver medal in the 2019 Independent Publisher Book Awards and was selected as a finalist in the Eric Hoffer Book Awards.
