...And the Sakura Will Blossom

The early morning arrived. The moon had fallen and the sun began to rise. Its sharp, yet subtle, rays radiating through the shoji that bordered Romazo Yakutoro’s four-sided house. The wall of sunlight that shined through slowly crept along the floor, before reaching Romazo’s mattress where it proceeded to cover his blankets and his, soon to be unrested, face. Romazo’s swift squints and batting eyelids deepened the wrinkles that surrounded the corners of his eyes. He breathed in deeply through his nostrils, the air cutting through the thick mucus that lay within his nose. Followed was a wheezing cough, which involuntarily caused his neck muscles to contract and pull his head off the pillow he wouldn’t see until the sun set again. Like his spine was made of rust, Romazo grunted exasperatingly as he struggled to sit in an upright position. He let out a hopeless sigh, ‘another yesterday’ he thought to himself. Peeling the blanket off his legs, he turned to his left and from the floor, grabbed his work clothes; an old, dusty grey pullover that he squeezed his overweight body through.

After all, Romazo had no one to impress, Yoka was in Anoyo now and he was waiting for the day where he would wake up, not to this world, but the world over there.

Pushing off the mattress with his brittle arms on to his two feet, Romazo staggered his way to his front door, slid it to the right, stepped outside and slid the door back. He began to tie his pair of tattered waraji on to his feet for the walk he made, every single day, to the village temple. There he would prune the sakura and collect the delicate fallen blossoms, every single day.

Between Romazo’s house and the temple was the village. He had spent his entire life in this village and had never left it, even once. From his home, he looked up to the temple, admiring from a distance as it rested on ground that was elevated above the rest of the village.

Romazo was not simply looking at a building but he was looking at the only purpose he had left in life.

Romazo began to walk. His feet stepped upon the gloomy charcoal stone path that led him to his destination. Romazo tilted his head back to fully embrace the force of Fujin as cool crisp air caressed his face and slid over every individual strand of hair left on his head, the chill brushing over the surfaces of his scalp. He inhaled deeply in order for the fine scent of cypress, that spontaneously grew through gaps in the ground, to cut through the opaque morning mist and be absorbed by his senses. No matter what corner of the village he was in, every time Romazo

turned his head to either side of himself, he never failed to witness; the frantic movements of mothers cooking breakfast for their half-a-dozen tribe of children. The clattering of pots and utensils producing a pounding sound that, fortunately, now were muffled to Romazo’s well accustomed ears. Illuminant steam in the form of rhythmic ribbons escaped the porcelain white cups of tea being sipped by the elderly. The young children of the village, holding a powerful stance on compressed earth and in militarised lines, performing their routine training of Judo. The energetic youth wear their judogi with pride, the flag of the nation hand sewn on to the upper back area of their uniforms. “Oh, how that red captivates the eye and contrasts against the spotless white, it warms my heart”, Romazo said to himself with his husky, sombre voice.

“The Sakura Man!” Several of the children identified, as he walked by. ‘The Sakura Man’, thought Romazo with a grin, his only title. Approaching the outer vicinity of the temple grounds, he gives a slight bow of acknowledgment to the merchants and tradesman setting up their stalls, preparing for another yesterday of selling statues and ornaments of the beloved Shinto gods.

Romazo finally reaches the ancient steps that lead him up to the sacred building. They are enveloped in fresh moss and glistening drops of morning dew, who’s moisture seeps through his fragile waraji, slightly dampening the soles of his feet but Romazo is not bothered in the slightest. Lifting one leg after the other, he climbs, each step he takes becomes heavier and heavier. He then finally reaches the platform of the temple, his destination. A wave of contentment pours over Romazo. He was in the presence of the the only purpose he had left in life. He felt at peace, he was in his place, he was Romazo, the man who cared for the Sakura.

Romazo got to work immediately. Plucking, gathering and pruning was a very therapeutic

process that allowed his mind to ponder endlessly.

‘Is this all there is to my life? Should I try to eliminate the monotony? But, I am so old that such change would be pointless. Though the thought of waking up to a different tomorrow is delight!

Will there be a different tomorrow?

Romazo’s mind suddenly froze and then he gave a light chuckle. He realised, that asking oneself such questions is comical, ‘Of course there will be a new tomorrow, for life goes on’. Romazo grinned, ‘Regardless of what I question about life’s mysteries, there is but one things I can be certain of; The universe and the life it energises will continue. The sun will rise, the moon will set, the wind will blow, the trees will grow, the temple will stand... And the sakura will blossom’.