I approach a field raining delicate petals, every shade of pinks and yellows.
Each shade ever so vibrant and sensual.
The summer sun becomes more forgiving, no longer lashing at my exposed back with its searing whip.
The lacerations still remain all over my ribcage but as I am embraced by this shower,
pedals cling to my fragile skin and melt into me,
sensation gentle and tender like a mother holding a baby close to her bosom.
I pause for a moment, trying to find the source.
Several dozen meters in front of me up top a hill stood a woman in a red and green yukata
a woven basket in one hand with the other liberally throwing handfuls of pedals into the summer breeze.
Through the wind I heard her soft laugh, echoing in my ears and filling me with a once familiar sense of warmth,
maybe home.
An open hearth in the middle of a shabby but well-loved room.
Portraits of myself as a baby lining the wall in various costumes and get ups.
My mother coming in and stroking my hair, running her fingers through my untamed hair.
She would sit behind me and brush it gently until she no longer had to struggle with it.
I detested her hairbrushing but still look back on those memories with fondness.