Cherry Blossoms

My wife and I visited the cherry orchards of Kyoto in the
late spring, when the blossoms were just starting to lose
their vigor.  My father once told me that the flowers are
most beautiful that time of year because death has touched
them for the first time.

I thought of him as we followed the path through the trees,
and his spirit seemed to permeate everything around us.
The breeze blew, and petals fell like snowflakes.

I have something to tell you, my wife said.

Just then, we reached the end of the path, and my wife said
nothing further.  We drove in silence to the restaurant.

#

My father had passed away last autumn.  Yesterday, we followed
his last request: we scattered his ashes into the sea.

#

Once again, my wife tried her best to use chopsticks.

I took her hand in mine, moulded her fingers into the right
shape.  I thought of my father, and how he had wanted me to
marry a Japanese.

I'll learn, she said.

She lifted the tuna to her lips and took a cautious bite.

#

At the hotel, my wife sat in front of the TV, wearing only her
underwear.  She was watching the news; she didn't understand
a word of it, but her eyes never left the screen.

She said it suddenly and without warning: she wanted to have
a baby.

#

I imagined our future child: half Asian and half white.
Maybe she'll be an artist, with piercings all over her body,
and all the boys would lust after her.  Maybe he'll be a poet,
and all the girls would gather around to listen to his words
and watch him with puppy eyes.

#

That night, we didn't use contraceptives.

In bed, I opened her legs, knelt between them.

Minutes passed.

A tendon stood out on her thigh, quivering.  Beads of
perspiration started to form.

"Now," she whispered.  Her fingers ran wild through my hair.

#

Years ago, on our first date, a black man saw us walking hand
in hand.  An Asian man with a white woman.

"What's she doing with you?" he said as we passed.

#

In bed, I marvel at the foreignness of her.  Tiny blond hairs
cover her arms and unshaven legs.

#

My male friends looked at me with awe and disbelief.

"She's white?!" "Blond?!"

None of them have white girlfriends.

#

In bed, her gasps grow louder.  I feel her muscles clenching
me, milking me.

I hold her down, prevent her from squirming as I thrust
into her.

I want her to feel that she is mine.

#

Days after our first date, in her backyard, she took me into
her mouth.  We could see her father sitting in the kitchen
reading his newspaper, oblivious.

I realized that dating me was an act of defiance for her.

I spurted into her mouth.

She coughed slightly, swallowed.

#

In bed, her gasps turn into moans.  Her fingernails dig into
my arms.

She is close.

#

Her cries echo in the room.  She writhes, clutches me, urges
me into her again, harder.

She comes, her breath trembling.

#

"Come inside me," she whispers.

I stifle my screams with her lips.

#

Afterwards, the room is soundless.  She sleeps.  I cannot hear
her breathing.

#

Her father warned her once.  "He's Japanese.  He'll want you
to quit your job, do all the cooking and cleaning."

#

In the morning, her eyes are shining.  The promise of motherhood
fills her with something mysterious.  I cannot begin to
understand it.  I only know that I have become a part of it.

I think again of my father, of his dreams of the new world.

I put my ear to my wife's belly, listening for the sound of
the heart that has not yet begun to beat.

margiedonnadieu@gmail.com

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