Kyoto Between Seasons

The blossoms are already gone by the time I arrive, a week later than the forecasts promised, which is exactly the point. The temple paths that were shoulder to shoulder ten days ago are empty enough that I can hear gravel under my own shoes.

For one week, the city stops performing itself and just is itself.

A temple keeper sweeping fallen petals tells me, through a mix of English and patience, that this is his favorite week of the year. Not the peak, after it. I ask why. He says the flowers don’t need anyone watching them fall.

This is my fourth spring here and I still time it for the week after, when the postcard is already over and something quieter takes its place. I don’t think I’m chasing the blossoms anymore. I think I’m chasing this particular kind of emptiness.