The cherry trees in our backyard were planted by a grandmother, 3 owners ago, for her grandkids, because – according to one of our other neighbors who knew her – she had grown up so poor that her parents couldn’t afford cherries in the market, and she didn’t want her grandchildren to experience that simple but very real deprivation.
Large and majestic, they are more than 50 years old, probably approaching the end of their lifetime. At the end of each winter, I wonder whether they will wake up again. This year they have given us the most gorgeous bloom I have ever seen. In our COVID-afflicted world, this sea of bright blossoms has given me a sense of renewal and hope. Life continues, even without us, and strangely, I find relief in this notion of a larger world that remains benignly indifferent to us. As long as it is this beautiful, I won’t mind being here one day to see it. I suspect the woman who planted these trees felt the same way.
