abloom

a day late and a dollar short (lose a bet?)
It appears that, rather than a new weekend human interest post tradition, I have begun a regular post called the Andrew apologizes for posting the weekend human interest post on Monday. Really, though. Don't we all want to extend our weekends into one more day? Thus.

On Sunday, I joined a friend for a walk down to the tidal basin, lined, as it was, with thousands of cherry blossomed trees. And thousands of people shuffled down a trail along the water, visiting this pink and white brooch by mother nature's collar. At some point, we all, I should hope, reckoned that the place and the time felt right. Beer after mowing the lawn right. This is spring, and I'm going to brush my newly sunburned face on some low hanging cherry blossoms.

The blossoms are short lived. In just a little while, the spring breeze will wear those petals like a flimsy skirt. It's stange to think of their fruit-fly existence while walking under the branches. That, in days, these petals will be the closest thing we see to snow until winter. Here and gone.

But, here again come next spring.

That's why we walk down there, by the tidal basin. On a stark clear day with perfect spring air, we were given a moment. Fading as it may be, you can't watch those trees without connecting to every memory of spring's first days. I was with my family in Umstead Park, on my school's quad, not studying for finals, my first day back in flip flops. And, hopefully, I was looking at these trees again sometime.

And all that springtime was there inside me while we were sitting at the tidal basin. But I wasn't thinking about any of those memories. I didn't have to close my eyes or tell a story to evoke my idealized recollection of April. The cherry blossoms are here. And their quick presence is rather like a flashing smile from early spring. With my legs dangling down toward the water, I could let, finally, the memory of early spring be something other than a memory.