On Pembroke Street and grace
There was another cherry blossom season wherein there lived a woman and a man, neither of which had the slightest knowledge of their forbears. So it was with especial insignificance that they rode the bus and witnessed the soft, lilting flood of pinks and whites play lullabies atop dark and labouring tree-trunks. It was the lullabies that sung waveringly, in deep, orchestral tones, immortal like Roman arches and haunting like their Gothic partners, which lay in their breasts a sort of stillness, a slow, sweeping intimacy, a languid pause, a stained-glass remembrance of ancestors, that brought them together in arbourous peace. And in the brightness of one day, he said to her, “The magnolias are coming out,” and she said that yes, they were; it was later, when she was walking alone and came to walk beneath yet more bowers and looked up to discover that they were those of a magnolia tree that she was silent in her realization that indeed, she had been stilled. Not knowing that the stillness had come from ancestors, long dead but ever inspired in the earth, who had empatterned their wisdom into the dirt, which the sakura and magnolia trees then heaved up into their outstretched branches and into their cheerful blossoms, at which she had then stared and from which she had received that stillness, she walked on, happy.