It’s cold, which seems incongruous with the icy white blossoms and the bright green grass. The sun knifes through the blossoms, almost as blinding as the intensely pale blue-white sky.
This is spring in the city, when everyone wishes it was warmer than it was; when everyone knows it’s about to be too hot to bear and this is the moment.
He asked me to turn my head ever so slightly into the blossoms, because we are taking those photos that everyone takes among the blossoms --head tilted, blossom grazing a cheekbone, sun and sky winking behind, and the blossoms like 10 million jewels in the background.
There’s no smell on the air except the ice cold spring wind, and that’s a relief. The air just smells cold. When you breathe in, you simply breathe in cold air, but it’s just warm enough that you cannot see it when you breathe out. Your nostrils fill and expand, and it feels like a gift.
If only you had a jacket or a sweater, this afternoon in the cold spring sun would be perfect; it will certainly look perfect in the photos.
When you reach up to touch a blossom, it feels insignificant. It’s actually heavy, and you notice more the weight than the silk, because all you care in that moment is to move the branch of blossoms this way or that --for the photo that matters more than this moment.
There was a time, many years ago, before camera phones and Instagram, when you were walking up a hill in summer, and it was unbearably hot and dusty.
Along the side of the road, along with the buzzing of the gnats and flies, resplendent in their pugnacious glory, popped up the large, frilly white heads of Queen Anne’s Lace, and you always wondered what they were and why they felt so raspy in the palm of your hand.
This is what flowers really felt like --slightly unpleasant with an aroma masked by dust.
Regarding Object Writing http://www.spencermichaud.com/2012/10/songwriting-101-writing-from-experience.html#.VCLC4RY2Xct