“Year after year, the flowers bloom the same; year after year, the people are not those of old.” (年年岁岁花相似，岁岁年年人不同)

Cherry Blossoms

My first encounter with these blossoms was in March 2020. My wife had just begun her doctoral studies, and the world was tilting into the surreal uncertainty of a global pandemic. I remember standing together under the pale canopy, our faces hidden behind masks, breathless at the sheer scale of the bloom. Even amidst the collective shadow of that year, the vitality of the trees felt like a promise—a glimmer of hope for a new chapter. Back then, I was still living a life in transit, commuting long distances for work. Those swirling petals felt like a fairy tale, a gentle welcome to the city we had decided to call home.

In the years that followed, the spring bloom became our annual pilgrimage. Each passing season brought new friends into our circle and saw our lives grow more settled and rooted. My phone turned into a digital archive of this evolution, filled with photos of my wife framed by those same pink clouds, year after year—until the masks were finally put away and the world moved on.

Then, life bloomed in a more literal sense. Two years ago, in the heart of spring, our son was born at a nearby hospital. When he was just two weeks old, the blossoms reached their peak. Though my wife was still navigating the fragile days of recovery, we walked together with my parents to capture a family portrait under the trees. Our son was a tiny, drowsy observer, taking in the bustling crowds with the wide, uncomprehending eyes of a newborn.

A year later, the scene shifted. He was a sturdy one-year-old in a blue sweater vest, sporting a look of adorable reluctance as we tried to capture the perfect photo. He had just learned to walk—steadying himself with our hands, stumbling, and picking himself back up. Though he couldn’t speak yet, he pointed at the falling petals with sheer excitement, narrating his joy in a language of babbles.

Now, at two years old, the trip to the grove has become a sacred family ritual—a living yardstick of our growth. This year, his excitement began the moment we left the house; he knew exactly where we were headed. Once we arrived, the roles reversed: instead of carrying him, we were the ones giving chase. He ran through the grass, his eyes darting from the crowds to the trees, then up to the drones and planes roaring in the distance. To him, the world is a gallery of wonders. I hope these moments settle into the foundation of his memory—a subconscious blueprint of beauty he can carry forever.

I do not know how much longer our path will keep us in this city. Life may eventually take us elsewhere, and a blooming season like this might one day become a rare luxury. But for now, I deeply cherish this seventh year.

A flowering tree can live for over a century. To the cherry blossoms, I am merely one of a million passing shadows in their long lives. But to me, they are a permanent part of my soul’s geography—a witness to the years we grew, the years we loved, and the beautiful, fleeting gift of being alive.