Last year's peonies (admittedly twenty-four months, not twelve) may be the swift kick in the rump I need to resume my thorny relationship with my fine weathered 35mm friend.

After the (many) overlapping months, I should have something to say. An unnecessary excuse, a monotonous detail of my life that I try to make interesting, flowery language to beget ornate visions of flowers. I was overtaken by hanami season. There were daily cherry blossom viewings. Sakura daifuku. Oukashigure. Cherry blossom sparkling sake. Sakura gum. Grand plans with T. to make a map of all of the cherry blossom trees in New York City with rudimentary watercolors by yours truly. Somehow, it feels like we've seen them all (charting the progress of various gardens, parks, and tree-lined avenues), yet we haven't seen enough.
I wrote the above nearly a month ago, at the tail end of hanami season. Since then, I have locked in my memory evening meetings down Cherry Blossom Lane with tuna sashimi and peppercorn sake, the day spent under the raining Kanzan trees, and more recently, several Sunday sakura-sleuthing jaunts. Wherein, T. & I sadly return to the blossom-bare trees and through the dark olive foliage, we rub our eyes in disbelief, and discover a single pink flower glowing in the sun.

wednesday

Much has happened since this day, two or so months ago. I've never uttered this utterance, but this Saturday (documented by my sandy sneakers & mini-mosaic proto-type) was quite a "benchmark day." JC & I drove to Dead Horse Bay in his station wagon singing along to Irma Thomas, I started drinking iced coffee for the first time in my life, the succulent I procured that afternoon has symbolically bit the dust, & a few other things I ought to keep mum about.

Without meaning to sound like I'm signing your high school yearbook, I hope you have a swell summer!