Sakura Spectator

The ephemerality of human life, viewed from an unlikely lens. I was given the prompt of "cherry blossoms" by someone trying to get me out of a writing slump, and this was how I decided to run with it.

I do not know what they are called, but I’m certain they have a name for me. I’ve heard the animals in the grove speak of them, but the name is never the same. They reference them by the lack of fur or feathers, claws or beaks. They reference how they cannot climb as well or even fly. Sometimes, the creatures of the forest reference how they create structures and tools from objects they acquire. Despite all this, the creatures of the forest do not have a name that transcends their own unique chitters and chirps, so I do not know what to call them.
I have heard these creatures say what they call me, and I have learned to pick apart the patterns of sound they use in reference to me. I enjoy the sounds they make, especially the ones they use for me. Some of my kin dislike what they call us, some dislike those creatures in general. Those of my kind that dislike them claim them as a relentless force of devastation, but I’m fond of them. I’m fond of watching their freedom to move around and make choices, fond of watching the little ones play in the shower of petals I lose, fond of watching them grow close to one another and find companionship with one another, and fond of the moments they take to attune themselves to the world we cohabitate.
I enjoy what they call me, what they call us I suppose. There is a softness to it, but also a depth. It feels right when it comes from them. There is a sense of veneration, a rhapsodic praise of something intangible. I believe they say what they say with a reverence that comes from seeing me as some esoteric answer to a question they’ve been asking for their entire existence.
What I find out about these beings I find out from the birds that seek refuge with me. The birds, who taught me how they spoke long ago, have told me they share the same features with them; they have eyes and breathe air and make sounds by pushing that air out of their lungs. They eat food and drink water and find themselves in need of rest. They have young, they raise the young, they allow the young leave to raise more offspring. The cycle continues, propagating life to the farthest stretches of this world that I have only imagined from my spot here, nestled near the bank of this meander in a grove of my kin.
I met one of them when it was small, with round features and wide eyes. It teetered and wobbled its way towards me, his limbs stretched as far forward as it could reach. It fell into me and let out a joyous sound. I have heard sounds like this come from these beings before, but none quite like this. The effervescent sound filled the air with a sense of unbridled glee. An older one called after it, and it erupted in this sound again, its little tendrils grasping at me and trying to hide behind my base. It peaked its head out from behind me, and again I heard the elated noise from this young one. I saw the older one run towards it and scoop it up, gingerly. The older one does not seem angry, but instead wraps it up close and nuzzles its face into the younger’s face. It is a sign of affection, at least it seems that way. And as soon as the moment occurs it is done, and I am left in the specter of rapture.
I watched as the young one grew, remaining a silent observer to its companionship. I watched as it brought others, played with them and sang songs. It was from the squirrels who nestled in the knots who taught me that what the young one was doing with his kin was playing, or at least that was their word for it. I had also learned from the squirrels that the young one who visited me so often was a male, still an infant but as old as some of their own elders.
I think he liked me most compared to the rest of the grove. He would come by in the mornings as he got older and watch the brume drift across the stillness of the pond in the early hours before first light. He would have older members of his kind edify him at the water’s edge, and would often bring the older one I had seen all those ages ago, whom I believed to be his mother, to talk about things I fear I will never know. But with each interaction with his kind I saw changes within his eyes each time he looked towards me. He had grown so much from the little one that came to me all those years ago beaming with joy.
The last time I had seen him he was alone, donning garments that matched the grass during a draught. He was solemn, his thoughts far away from us as he gazed out onto the pond. He seemed as though he was making peace with things, or scanning the horizon for one more answer to ideas I doubt I could comprehend. He then turned his gaze to me, reaching out to touch me. He let out a sigh, looked towards my tallest branches, and said something to me. He called me by my name, and I could sense that he was saying goodbye. I did the only thing I could do in the moment, and I let a few of my petals fall to him. Some of them landed on top of him, and the rest scattered at his feet. I hope he knew his words did not fall on a deaf soul, and that while it was the best I could do, I hope that my gift to him meant as much as sharing in his life meant to me.
I do not know where he had gone, but it was years before I had seen his likeness again. Images of his likeness came suddenly one day, with others of his kind wearing black and carrying objects with his face on it. They lit tiny fires and filled and wept, filling the air with pained wails and cries. I have heard the birds and the creatures who call me home reference death, but while their wakes and strife moved me, it did not shake me to my core the way the mournful squalls of these creatures had. I did not have to speak their language to know that the young one, who found joy amongst my petals and solace at my roots, would never fill the air with his joyful song again.
That day I did what I could for the young one, and let my petals fall unto his kin to comfort them. I let them fall into their hair and on their shoulders, let them get caught in the folds of their adornments and grace across the tears on their cheeks. I wept for him.
Every so often his image graces my presence again, and the cries have subsided, but I still miss him. Years have passed, his mother has followed suit, and I have yet to find another of those creatures who allowed me access to their existence from afar. Few have let me see what it means to be one of them, to let me grow alongside them. The ache is still there, with each one that passes by and carves space for me, only to fade away. For each one that passes, I give them all I could offer. I shed my petals for them, let them cascade over these creatures to let them know I see them, I hear them, and their lives have not gone unnoticed under my limbs.

Author's Note

Not sure if I like how this ends. Also not sold on the title, either. Open to any suggestions and feedback for either concerns or in general.