Cars speed by in a blur of heat and light. The smell of burnt rubber fills the air and smothered, decrepit cherry blossoms paint the street in a blend of pink, white, brown, and black. The colors are what bring back the painful memories more than the name of the place. I can still see the images induced from the incident. The rush of the wind had whipped past her delicate frame, lashing her in large gusts and the glint off of the slightly deflated tire frames sparkled in the dying sunlight of the evening. The smell of gasoline filled my nostrils and hinted of the prominent danger, but being ignorant, I ignored the omen. The slight aching feeling that ate at the bottom of my gut urged me to turn around, but curiosity had latched on to my being like a leech sucking on its ignorant prey. I was seventeen and I was stupid. The indescribably sweet aroma of massacred cherry blossoms emanated from the black asphalt, enhanced by the heat and humidity of the summer. The soft pink hues and the blossoming glare of white bodies coated the tires of those rickety wheels, and the edges of her white dress were splashed with their green and pink juices. I had watched her bike, alone, around the bend that day. I knew it wasn’t safe, but I didn’t stop her. Her slender legs were a liquid peach through the heat waves as she fought against the old metal contraption, with each petal, a speeding blossom in line with a fatal end. Seeds and petals drifted from the canopy of cherry trees and nested in her fine, dark hair while others glided past her evergreen eyes alight with happiness, a foreigner to the oceans of her corneas. She was absolutely beautiful, plastered to the brilliant blue of the petite bike. That evening, when she rounded the bend, I should have fought against my ignorance. I was the only person able to save her, but I took her life for granted, and with that I also took her love. I had subconsciously made the decision for her, and I had to face the consequences. As I watched her bike round the sharp bend, I watched the instantaneous collision. First I saw the bike, flying through the haze, tearing through the dazzling blue sky, and shattering in to pieces like a glass figurine, but when I glanced back in her direction, her figure had vanished, and all that could be seen were the colors. Electric blue, black, evergreen, the soft, torn pink of the cherry blossoms clashed with a striking red, and the nausea hit me as when I finally realized that I couldn’t tell the difference between the flesh and flowers. The very last thing that I saw was the truck, flying off the road and sinking in to a muddy ditch. At this point, I knew she was gone, gone like the sudden flash of her inconspicuous smiles she rarely ever revealed. She was a cherry blossom that had drifted down a path of misfortune and collided with the wheels of simple fate. Just as the cherry blossoms, she had once radiated beauty against a sparkling blue, and met her fate along a shaded road of pink, brown, white, and blood. Something loved was lost, and another body will coat the tires of the ignorant. I felt both our hearts break that day, on the corner of Cherry Street.
Heartbreak on the Corner of Cherry Street
April 6, 2010