The blossoms last a week — so go

On both banks of the Meguro River, the Somei-Yoshino come into full bloom together within a single week. Petals fall to the water and the slow current carries them off, pink-white over pink-white, layering into an angle impossible to fix in memory. The air is warm, afloat with a little of the blossom's sweetness, a little of the river's faint tang; a wind grazes past and a few petals slant down to rest on the back of a hand — cool, almost weightless. Standing there watching, twenty minutes pass before you notice, and nothing has been done. On the railing someone has set a flask to photograph; on the bridge someone waits for a particular light; in a folding chair an old man sits with eyes closed, face to the blossom, simply there.

Viewing, the Japanese call hanami. From late March into early April, full bloom lasts perhaps a week, and then the flowers are gone. Beneath that seriousness about cherry blossom lies a way of regarding life: precisely because it blooms briefly and falls fast, these few days feel so worth it. Knowing it will fall, everyone comes all the same, packing Ueno Park and every Somei-Yoshino-lined bank airtight — and still counts the trip well made.

Hanami was never only about the flowers; it is a picnic of mats spread under the trees, bento and drink laid out, companies and clubs and neighbours staking their spots before the bloom. The air carries the oil-smoke of charcoal grilling, the malt of beer, the sun-warmed smell of plastic mats, laughter drifting in waves from every side. That day a few girls didn't bother with the famous spots — walking on, a corner turned up a single tree blooming all alone, not a soul beside it, so coats went down on the grass, a circle formed, a bag of snacks passed round. That unrecommended tree made it harder to rise than any landmark on a list.

Only sitting down does one hear that quiet, too, has its sounds: petals rustling onto a coat, the river running thin not far off, the talk among one's own slowly opening up. The wind comes in gusts, each shaking down a shower of blossom — into hair, into paper cups, into a just-opened bag of biscuits, and no one can be bothered to brush it away. Sun lies warm on the legs; someone simply lies flat, looking at the sky through the gaps in the flowers, says something or other, and the whole circle laughs, then settles again, only the petals still falling.

The night sakura is worth waiting for too. Light strikes the petals and mirrors back off the river, a colour wholly unlike the day's — a warm white with a hint of green in it, and many call it lovelier than daylight. As the night wind rises the heat withdraws, and the scent of blossom, instead, settles and sharpens. A few stayed by the river until late, no one mentioning leaving. The wind blew, petals fell into collars, into a just-bought cup of wine, someone laughing, don't brush it off, don't — so no one did, letting it float on the surface, slowly turning.

After that week, the flowers fell. Knowing they would, no one rushed to photograph — only stood and watched petals drop, one by one, to the water and be carried away. What a few girls carried home was never the image in a camera, but that afternoon of doing nothing: four of them crammed under a nameless tree, warmed by the same sun, showered head to foot by the same gust of blossom, watching together a thing that knew it would vanish bloom at its fullest, and all of them happening to be there. The corner tree had no one else beside it. I think you and your closest few, years from now, will be like us — remembering how it bloomed, and remembering it for a very long time.