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I was accosted by a sharp and complete sensory memory of the last of the raggedy pink blossoms falling in brief wet showers off a tree above me while I try to nap off jet lag on a park bench as tidily-dressed old folks with heavy cameras around their necks tell family stories in the gate. It's not a cherry tree, I don't think.
I should go for a walk in our own park, if I can get up. But there won't be a pink tree, or a place to have cheap matcha and wagashi on benches with nappity red coverings overlooking the lake.
I guess I can make my own tea.
I should go for a walk in our own park, if I can get up. But there won't be a pink tree, or a place to have cheap matcha and wagashi on benches with nappity red coverings overlooking the lake.
I guess I can make my own tea.