At Their Most Beautiful - a short story
The smell of smoke woke me.
I stared at the ceiling, my legs moving beneath the rough sheets. The light of the morning filtered through the balcony doors, illuminating the dust floating around the room.
Within the smoke, I also caught the scent of coffee. The two aromas fought for dominance of my senses before I remembered last night. Touching the cold sheets next to me, I wondered where Hana had gone. In response to my silent question, the wind came through the open balcony door, her sigh tangled in the breeze. I looked towards the noise.
Hana stood, leaning against the railing, a trail of smoke leaking from the cigarette in her hand. She looked out upon the park below. Our clothes littered the apartment floor, lumpy shadows covering the hardwood. She only wore underwear, despite stepping outside. The wind caught the few strands near her ears as she tied up her black hair.
Getting out of bed, I grabbed my shirt and pants and pulled them on. I walked over to the coffeepot and poured myself a cup. The bitterness of the brew stung my mouth, and I went to meet Hana on the balcony.
I leaned against the railing next to her. Below us, Hirosaki Park stretched for miles. It was the fourth weekend in April. The weekend of the Sakura Festival. Overhead, the sun shone warm, but in the distance, the snow-capped peak of Mt. Iwaki stood stark against the sky.
The sakura rippled over the park below, the pink ocean stretching beyond the corners of my vision. Despite the earliness of the morning, the crowds already filtered through the entranceway, bringing with them the excitement of a phenomenon left entirely to the whims of nature.
Hana put her cigarette to her lips. “Good morning,” she said.
I wrapped my hands around the warmth of the coffee cup. “Good morning,” I said. “Look, about last night —”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember a thing.”
“What do you mean, you don’t remember?”
Another puff of smoke as she ignored my question. “Will you go to the festival today? It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day.”
“Let’s go together,” I said. My words betrayed the little confidence that I felt.
She laughed. “Do you think that’s possible? Really?”
I didn’t answer her. Below us, I watched a young couple getting out of a taxi in front of the park’s entrance. An old-style Fuji Camera hung around the boy’s neck. The girl dressed in a floral one piece.
The boy eyed a lone tree by the entrance to the park. He gestured for her to stand in front of it, bringing the camera up to his eye.
Click.
They held hands as they walked into the park.
“So, what will you do?” I asked.
She didn’t answer my question. “Everyone looks so happy,” she said.
“Well, it’s the festival today.”
“I never understood why people are happy at the sakura festival.”
“What do you mean?”
“The sakura come. They come like a lion, roaring and beautiful. And then they’re gone. Two weeks at best. If it’s rainy or windy, they’re gone even sooner.” She looked at me. It was the first time she did so since I woke.
“At their most beautiful, they die.”
She put her cigarette between her lips again.
“Spring is a time when we think life is beginning. But look at them.” She gestured forward. “Is that really a beginning? When they fade so quickly?”
I stared ahead, looking towards the park as if I could see the individual petals on the trees. “At their most beautiful, they die,” I repeated.
“Just like us.” She smiled at me.
I never knew what to do with her smile. She always smiled at the wrong time.
“Were we at our most beautiful?” I asked.
She tilted her head, as if contemplating her answer. “I think so. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “What if there were more beautiful times ahead?”
“Ah.” A puff of smoke. “Well, I guess we’ll never know.”
I watched more people enter the park. The crowd grew as the mid-morning buses and taxis filtered through the streets.
Families, lovers, cousins, co-workers — everyone was present underneath the sakura trees today, I thought.
Up here on the balcony, there was only smoke and lukewarm coffee.
“Then let me ask this of you,” I said. “Can you tell me a story? One last story about the sakura.”
She hesitated before finding the words. “When I was small, my parents took me to see the sakura here. You know how the park is, though, it’s hard to get around. And with all these people, it’s really easy to get lost. Well, I must have seen a beautiful tree. Maybe by the river? I’m not sure I really remember. Anyway, I ran off, chasing down the sakura. When I got near the tree, I thought it was ugly. It looked so bright and pink from far away, but when I got near it, I realized how ugly it was. The trunk was missing bark, the sakura themselves were a little wilted. I looked around. At that moment, every other tree looked more beautiful than the one I stood under.
“So, I kept running around. But every tree I found, it was the same thing. My parents couldn’t find me for the longest time. They were beside themselves. Eventually, the police came and picked me up. I had a handful of flower petals crushed in my fist. I remember being angry at the sakura. ‘Why aren’t you more beautiful?’ I yelled.”
She took a puff of her cigarette.
“I went back to the park about a week later with my friends. All the blossoms were gone. The entire park was green. I realized then what a grotesque thing the sakura are.”
I contemplated her story. It sounded like her.
“Let’s go to the park,” she said. “I changed my mind.”
I took a sip of my coffee, but it had gone cold. Walking inside, I put the mug in the sink and washed my hands. The sunlight reflected off the clean hardwood floor of the apartment.
I walked back out onto the balcony. I didn’t want to go to the park. Not today. I watched more people enter the sea of pink. It was a raging sea, the vastness of its life only outdone by the inevitable death that would follow.
I picked up the cigarette from where it rested on the ashtray, putting it to my lips. The smoke that I blew disappeared in the bright spring air, as I looked out on the park alone.
Follow me
