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Cherry Blossoms

  How she loves cherry blossoms. I am indifferent to them, but I rejoice in the pleasure they bring her as I watch her dance beneath the cherry tree. My smile nearly matches her own as she kicks and spins in a dance routine she learned as a child in her ballet lessons.

Her brown eyes flash in delight as her long, chestnut hair fans out behind her from the force of her twirling among the wind-blown blossoms. Her white summer dress mimics her flowing tresses, displaying the bare feet and shapely legs beneath.

If ever I needed proof of the existence of God, this was it. Only a being of such depthless love and inspiration could create a thing of beauty that even the universe, with its trillions of brilliant stars and majestic nebulae, pale to insignificance next to her.

I never see the truck that broadsides us later that day. We are crossing the intersection when the whole world violently shifts beneath us. I know that the force of the impact must have created a massive cacophony of noise, but all is silent to my perception. Time seems to slow to a glacial pace.

Out of the corner of my eye, I barely perceive her head whip forcefully to the side and strike the top of the door. Bright red cherry blossoms erupt all around me, dancing, twirling, and tumbling impossibly slow. I feel them kiss my exposed skin and brush against my hair as the world spins in a parody of her dance earlier in the day.

If ever I needed proof of God, this is it. Only a being of immense cruelty and capriciousness could ever cause such pain and create a void so vast within my heart and soul that the immeasurable emptiness of space seems crowded in comparison.

Released from the hospital today, I stumble off my porch and stagger toward the cheery tree, half blinded by the tears cascading from my eyes, a chainsaw clutched painfully in my grip. How I abhor cherry blossoms.



Brock Deskins
Brock Deskins
Soldier, storyteller, animal lover. I write, hike, and play video games.

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