Cherry Blossoms

Cherry Blossoms

This filth-laden coat hangs with excess cloth around my frame, smelling of cigarettes, cheap alcohol, and loneliness; all of which I am well acquainted.  Darkness is everywhere, the sky, the trees the street I walk.

Tonight I’m going home.

As I count the houses I pass, each an identical, constricting box in a pallet of rain-washed colors, I wait for my number.

I stand in the front yard, just for a moment.  Our house, once white, has yellowed with time.

Light explodes from an upstairs window, illuminating familiar silhouettes, and familiar sounds.  Father yells.  Mother yells.  Something smashes.  Mother cries.

My body wells with sadness, aching to cry for her.  But tears take time, something I have no more of.

Tonight I’m going home.

I cross the lawn I played in as a child, withered grass collapsing under my feet.

By the sharp corner of the house grows a cherry tree, delicate blossoms protruding from every branch.

I stoop in front of her, running my fingers over where I had carved my name years ago.  Though it was the same knife with which I would gouge my own limbs in years to come, this tree never faltered, never bled.  She’s stronger than I am, I hope strong enough.

Tonight I’m going home.

I climb her branches, careful not to disrupt the white blossoms.  Reaching my favorite branch, I trust her with my weight, taking a deep breath.  Sweetness caresses my lungs.  They ache for more, but breathing takes time, something I have no more of.

Tonight I’m going home.

I see my finale, preset above me.  All I must do is reach.  I set it in place, shivering as it scratches my neck.  Once more I inhale the sweetness, then let my weight slip from the branch.

White petals fall.