The unerring certainty that is the blooming of the pink tabebuia every January, when the streets we drove down are flagrant with its flowers. The slow populating of the solitary branches, the leaves finding their place and feeling at home. The silent, life-giving churn in the veins of a tree, pushing up nubs, little buds, that will turn riotous overnight. The reminder that you and your beloved once were so loved that this sight seemed like a miracle. The brutality of blooming.
The paths that you walked down carpeted with the petals that you once tread on with light hearts; streets that never see you both again, sidewalks that don’t hear the tandem rhythm of your footsteps, as you walked as if you fitted into this world. The petals don’t hold grudges, they fall once again this January. There will be new lovers. The brutality of renewal.
A perfect sky, always different but always perfect. You were that sky once. And today, as you watch the the pink bloom and take over the city with some kind of childish delight, you understand that winters are kind. The cold keeps you in, the cold doesn’t make you look up at the sky; the cold doesn’t birth flowers that shamelessly beg your attention. You hold the cold in. And then January comes to Bangalore and the trees that lay dusty for the better part of the year, remind you once again that once you used to be blind. Now you see the flowers and that is the end. The brutality of sight.
Spring is a brutal thing.