Sakura Season

It was too late. The last of the blossoms had fallen.

Had the Shinkansen not developed a technical fault on the way from Tokyo, had she not spent one more night drinking plum wine in Shinjuku, and had the wind fronts not battled on this day over the northern spot famed for its late blossoming sakura, she would have completed her assignment: to capture on camera, by sketch and in words, the tear-inducing beauty of the last day of bloom, and the embodiment of Spring/Summer for the following year’s Paris catwalks.

Like one of the pink popcorn flowers dancing around her feet, her moment had passed and she would be replaced before long by a new wave of fashion school progeny.

A wrinkled and delicately translucent face, resembling sweet chestnut, leaned towards her, brimming with friendliness. 

“Here, douzo, take this handkerchief. My name is Mamiko. Nice to meet you,” she said.

“A-Arigato,” replied the assistant.

“Follow me.”

They walked to a single-storey wooden house and entered through a sliding door. 

Mamiko disappeared momentarily and came back holding a slice of apple pie on a plate.

“Sit. Try this.”

The assistant admired the dome of glazed fruit as she cut into it with a fork. A rich scent of ripe apple filled her nostrils before the flavour spread across every corner of her taste buds.

“Mmm,” she murmured appreciatively.

Mamiko smiled and said, “Apple pies here are the best in Japan.” She shuffled over to a chest of drawers at the side of the tatami room, opened a drawer, and carefully lifted out a large piece of cloth covered in embroidery.

The assistant wiped a crumb from her lip and gazed at the fine tapestry of shimmering thread. Pale pinks, silvers and whites evoked a marvellous richness of cherry blossoms covering every millimetre of the fabric.

“My ancestors are artisans of embroidery,” Mamiko explained. “My grandmother, like you, was sad to see the last day of the blossoms. She designed this pattern so that she could be surrounded by sakura, even in the coldest, darkest months of the year. Here, take it, douzo. A gift.”

The assistant bowed her head and received the cloth with both hands.

“Now, come,” said Mamiko and led the way to a courtyard garden at the back of the house. Only after they stepped out onto the veranda did it come into view.

The sakura tree was small and perfect, like an oversized bonsai. The angled light made the blooms glow so that at first they seemed unreal, as if made from the same cloth as Mamiko’s.

“Planted by my grandmother,” said Mamiko proudly.

“The blossoms are white, not pink,” said the assistant.

“You see white so easily, because you have not spent centuries with the sakura as my family have done. Look carefully and you can see what is there.”

As they contemplated the tree, plump with blossom, their eyes adjusted to the light, and the soft milky pink hue emerged, pulsating with promise. They smiled at each other and the assistant reached eagerly for her camera.

“Take your time,” said Mamiko. “And welcome to my home. It is always sakura season here.”