There's a tree I pass under everytime I go to work.

It's a cherry tree and it's nestled between two houses, in a narrow alleyway, it's thin branches reaching over in a lazy stretch to the other wall. Right now the tree is filled with tiny white flowers. When you walk under the snowy canopy you're suddenly hit by the sweet fragrance of the blossoms, so strong you can still smell it even when you're a few feet away.

Imagine walking home with your special one, holding hands, remnants of the Ayn Rand conversation still lingering in the air, the hot chocolate still warming its way through your belly. A cold night, but you don't notice it. The dark alleyway is no longer dangerous because you're safe, you're with someone.

You smell the flowers before you even reach it. Memories of summers long past, a tall, cool glass of lemonade, a boat sailing towards the horizon, all these make you pause. Spring is here and another summer close by. You want to stand here under the tree and savor the smell, the images it invokes and the hand still firmly holding onto you.



And the person you're with silently understands. There might be a kiss. Or there might not. He might pluck a cluster of tiny flowers and hand them to you, and later you might press them in your journal to remember this night.

You close your eyes, anticipating, not anticipating, deeply breathing in the air, taking in the moment. Two people under a tree, mere silhouettes against the dim yellow moon.

But the kiss is fleeting and the flowers will wilt. When summer ends, Ayn Rand may have been deciphered and the person may not be special anymore.

But the tree will always be there. Another spring can roll by and you can still walk under that fragrant umbrella of flowers, all alone, and remember.

First draft: May 7th 2003