There is nothing so startling or delightful as piles of pink on the curbs. Snow turns muddy quickly, so its beauty fades, but cherry blossom petals, as delicate as cut paper, as fragrant as the image of spring itself, lie in swirls and dusts of blush, gracing the road with ridiculous beauty. I say ridiculous because it is. Who else but children and romantics could dream up a road frosted with pink? It’s almost obscene, and I love it.
Others have written about it – when the season strikes you can’t help it – like a plague, cherry blossom fever strikes and everywhere are pictures and desserts and totes and lovers embracing the event.
But having never seen it in person, only as a visual motif for fluffy animes, I didn’t fully understand how dreamy it all is. Living where they bloom, for those two or three weeks, is a lesson in living happily, for who can turn a bend where those trees line the way and not feel uplifted?