Rain Swells The Buds
When we left this house a year ago, our cherry tree looked like it didn’t have another year left to live. Shel was in pretty much the same shape at the time, and so I count it as semi-miraculous that both he and the cerisier are full of new life. It’s been raining heavily for several days straight here, and the tree is clearly reveling in the unaccustomed moisture. As for us, the countless tears we shed over the past year have only nourished our love, and now we’re getting rained on as well, which can’t hurt. Our rain isn’t radioactive though, as far as we know
It was a very hard winter here, and my beloved bougainvillea, which climbed up to the second story last year, wrapping the house in brilliant fuchsia flowers, has been reduced to a few sticks. It’s still alive though, and I’m hoping to see it bloom once again. Illness is like that too, stripping us of our color and flamboyance, but not of our will to live, even amidst the rubble. But we’re not huddled in the dark, without food or water, wondering if our children are being poisoned by the air they breathe.
Somehow hope shines through, at least here in our home. There may be only one flower in the garden, but it’s doing all it can to brighten a dark day. Although I don’t think there are any flowers in Japan now; it’s supposed to snow tonight, and not the sweet snow of cherry blossoms drifting.
You can always try to start over, rebuild, re-pot, although you can never get back what you have lost. A home, a family, a town, a life, a country, when they’re gone, they’re gone for good. I hold Shel’s hand more tightly now.
The two of us stand strong, rooted in the debris of the past year and surrounded by the beginnings of the year to come. But we’re only two, and we count for little. Tens of thousands couldn’t keep their feet on the ground, millions are surrounded by debris, without new beginnings in sight. There’s only one Japan in the world. May it live.