I started freaking out over the big, pink crepe papier trees in front of my house just as they were ready to bloom, last week, during the sprummer days of 90+ degrees. For some reason, especially this year, I am extra anxiety-ridden re: this natural, yearly phenomenon. The trees bloom for approximately 2-3 weeks (three is unusually long), usually in May if I’m recalling correctly. Then one windy, rainy day or two can empty these glorious trees of all of it, like it was never there to begin with.
The soft, blush petals raining down on the sidewalk and front yards. Squishy and slippery underfoot. It is all gone before I’ve had a chance to look at it as someone should really look at it. To brush the feathery, soft, light blossoms along my cheeks, smell the light fragrance of early spring. It is heartbreaking. I’m worried it will be gone again, which it will, so why do I worry? There is always a sense of relief when the blooms finally have ejected themselves to the ground and elsewhere the breeze takes them. At least I don’t have to worry about missing them, since I’ve missed them. And now an entire year will pass again before the trees come back in their fantastic pink glory. And I’ll forget, and then remember again, next April, when the panic returns. I’m gonna miss it, I’m not going to see enough of these trees. I will never be able to see enough of these trees.
I think I know what you mean. They’re just so beautiful, but their presence is so fleeting… ah, a metaphor!
I feel that panic in particularly good moments: will I enjoy this moment enough, will I forget it tomorrow when things are less flawless, will I ever have another moment that comes close to this one? so illogical and so gripping, the sensory experience of delight and momentous springiness.