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Petals keep falling from the flowering tree that hangs over that patio here in the backyard into my glass of water. I love the flowering tree, even though it’s pink. I’m not so crazy about pink. But maybe that’s just something I’m holding tightly to for the sake of white-knuckling. I do that a lot, I’m realizing. I don’t mean it. Not even aware that I’m doing it, most of the time. Must be numb in the palms or something.

But I’m really into this tree. I don’t have a thang for nature like I wish I did. I’m cultivating the love. Trying. My little brother has it. We grow a garden now at Mom and Dad’s. Recycle banana peels in the compost. The beginning is simple, maybe, just sit out in it. Smell it, breathe it, let it sprinkle over and around you a bit. Drink it in; don’t keep your distance so much. So buried in the city and such.

But this flowering tree and me, we’ve got issues because just last week, when we had dinner out on the patio, I first noticed the tree with its pink blossoms all awakened, reaching toward the sky. I like it better now, awake from the bent winter branches, snow stuck to the bark months ago. And now, not ten days later, this pretty little thang is already checking out for spring. It’s shedding pink petals into my glass of water, which I am not alright with.

I am not alright with petals in my water. I am not alright with ten days of blossom and beauty and then none. I’m not alright with not getting to choose. With the tree budding, blossoming, blooming, never checking with me. I’m upset to know that I passed the door, walked across the patio, sat here at the glass table, and didn’t see that the flowers were getting lazy. I fail to notice because I’m not in-tune. I forget the possibility that the tree has a time. That maybe the cycle she’s in is fine for her. Or best for us. Or it just fits.

I sip around wilted pink lily pads in my glass. Or I accidentally don’t. Or I don’t sip at all. The flowers are going to fall off that tree, and the door will shut on spring, and I don’t get to choose. I’ll pick up the hand I’m dealt and drink it. Or I won’t.