メロウレイン / Futtara Doshaburi Mellow Rain

Cherry Blossom Season

 

It was their first spring together. There was a row of cherry trees in a nearby park, and Hiiragi looked forward to passing beneath them every day.

 

He had encountered a reasonably wide variety of flowers, plants and trees during his time at the botanical gardens, but cherry trees still held a special place in his heart.

 

Perhaps it was simply because he had been born and raised in Japan.

 

Cherry blossoms were the only flowers he instinctively counted alongside the passing years: this year’s cherry blossoms, last year’s cherry blossoms.

 

There was nothing wrong with saying this year’s tulips or this year’s sunflowers, but somehow it didn’t feel quite the same.

 

And so, as he approached his first spring with Kazuaki, Hiiragi watched excitedly as tiny buds emerged, swelled and gradually developed into flower buds.

 

As the cherry blossom front continued its steady journey northwards across Japan and the forecasts changed from expected flowering dates to expected dates of full bloom, Kazuaki suddenly stopped beneath the trees.

 

Looking up at the branches, where roughly half the blossoms had opened, he murmured,

 

“Why are the buds pink, but the flowers become paler once they bloom?”

 

Kazuaki had little interest in plants or animals, so Hiiragi was surprised that he had even noticed such a thing. And it made him happy.

 

Even if it was merely the result of casual observation, the fact that something about the flowers had caught Kazuaki’s attention was enough.

 

“Well, you see…”

 

Hiiragi searched for a way to explain it clearly.

 

“The pigment in cherry blossoms is anthocyanin, but it’s all produced while they’re still buds. So even when they grow and open, the amount of pigment doesn’t actually increase.”

 

“Ah. So it’s simply being diluted.”

 

Kazuaki understood immediately and nodded.

 

“The colour isn’t disappearing. It’s just spreading throughout the entire flower.”

 

“Exactly!”

 

Relieved that his rather clumsy explanation had been understood, Hiiragi continued.

 

“Come to think of it, I always notice something, too.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Every year when the cherry blossoms bloom, I think, Oh, they’re not actually as pink as I expected. Even though I see them every year, they always look whiter, or paler, than I imagined before they opened.”

 

“Ah. I know the answer to that one.”

 

Hiiragi doubted the cherry blossoms could somehow be growing progressively whiter with each passing year.

 

“Eh? Is there another reason besides preconceived expectations?”

 

“You could describe it as a preconception, I suppose, but there’s a phenomenon called memory colour.”

 

The colour of memories. Once again, Hiiragi remembered the brightly coloured konpeitō sugar sweets he had seen at his grandmother’s funeral.

 

“The sky is blue. The sea is blue. Apples are red. Cherry blossoms are cherry-blossom pink. People tend to remember those familiar colours as being more vivid than they actually are. Even in photographs, colours are often adjusted to bring them closer to what people remember. I imagine that reinforces those memory colours even further. When you print the colours faithfully, they can look muddy or faded.”

 

“But doesn’t that mean those are the real colours?”

 

“I’m not sure real is necessarily the appropriate word. After all, our individual brains are probably already making adjustments by the time we perceive colour in the first place…”

 

Kazuaki abruptly fell silent, looking rather uncomfortable.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I was just thinking that I’ve gone and turned this into another tedious, overly analytical conversation.”

 

“Why? It’s not tedious at all.”

 

In fact, Hiiragi thought Kazuaki was an extraordinarily interesting person. But he suspected Kazuaki wouldn’t react particularly well if he said so.

 

“I always imagined memories as something sepia-toned or faded. But apparently that’s not necessarily true.”

 

In that case, perhaps the colourful sugar sweets in Hiiragi’s memory were far brighter than they had been in reality.

 

There was no way to turn back time and check.

 

But he didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing.

 

Memories that became more beautiful every time they were recalled. As long as they didn’t end up hurting people who were still alive, perhaps there was nothing wrong with that.

 

“But it can happen the other way around, too,” Hiiragi murmured.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Sometimes something wasn’t actually that bad, but inside your head, you keep making it worse. Darker and more terrible than it really was.”

 

You became frightened and shut the memory away.

 

While it remained sealed, it simmered and burned inside you. Eventually, you cautiously lifted the lid to look, only to think, See? It really is terrible.

 

And so you engraved that belief even more deeply into yourself, over and over again.

Both Hiiragi and Kazuaki had things they kept locked away.

 

“…Perhaps so,” Kazuaki answered quietly.

 

“Even so, I can’t bring myself to underestimate the seriousness of what I’ve done.”

 

I know. You’re not wrong. But isn’t there a kind of being right that doesn’t actually do anyone any good?

 

That was what Hiiragi wanted to tell him.

Yet when he looked at Kazuaki’s uncompromising profile, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words and instead lowered his gaze.

 

A gentle hand took his.

 

“It’s all right.”

 

Hiiragi looked up. Kazuaki was smiling tenderly.

 

If the day ever came when he could no longer see Kazuaki, would that smile remain in his heart, growing gentler and sadder with each passing year?

 

“I haven’t forgotten that you told me to make myself happy. I have no intention of taking those words lightly, either.”

 

“…Mm.”

 

Behind Kazuaki, the cherry blossoms swayed in the faint breeze.

 

The buds, still flushed pink as though someone had brushed rouge across them, would become paler when they opened.

But their colour hadn’t disappeared.

 

The pigment belonging to those flowers hadn’t gone anywhere.

 

“What does happiness look like to you now, Kazuaki-san?”

 

“Perhaps being able to see these cherry blossoms bloom again next year with you.”

Kazuaki continued,

 

“And next year, I’d like to hear you say again, with that dissatisfied expression, that they’re whiter than you imagined.”

 

“That would mean I haven’t made any progress at all!”

 

Hiiragi deliberately looked offended. But he couldn’t help thinking that if it meant getting to hear Kazuaki’s explanation again, and seeing him look apologetic for being boring, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

 

Memories accumulated, becoming more beautiful with each passing year. Perhaps one day, they would look back upon the years they had lived together as though remembering a dream.

 

But it had been real. They had truly been here. Holding hands. Looking up at the cherry blossoms together.

 

Don’t forget.

 

Even when we reach our final spring.