I look at the tree in our front yard. Every year it shocks me. As if we’re in a conversation that is seemingly one-sided—mostly me, lamenting the lack of rain and how stressed the trees must be and wondering if the exhaust coughing up off south van ness is exacerbating the problem—the tree, standing tall, stretching towards the southern horizon, day in and out, watching us pass underneath. And then bam, the tree makes a statement. Last year, it was mid-March. This year, it was mid-February. A reminder, a plea, a triumphant proclamation, yelling that it is, in fact, alive. Still here, still working magic beneath the course bark, the fibrous leaves that fall to the ground, sometimes in heaps, under the late autumn waning moon. And now, seemingly overnight, the refined veins of branches bursting forth with hundreds of delicate blossoms, the lightest faintest pink so as to be almost a white shade of burgundy. A gentle breeze, a simple exhale of an outbreath, and the blossoms are all sent swirling down to the ground like confetti. Our front stoop left like a New Year’s Eve party, just after the clock strikes midnight. A reminder of starting over, making something out of nothing, celebrating that we are here, we are still here.