Cicadas sang from the dense bamboo as I followed my grandfather around the side of his house. We stopped by a small pond. A bush dotted with beautiful pink blossoms spread its arms over the water, the flowers reflecting like tiny silk flags. My grandfather cleared his throat and thought for a moment, pointing at the blossoms. "Hibiscus," he finally said. He told me in Japanese that each of the flowers had bloomed in the morning, and would close up forever the same evening. I nodded, happy to learn from him and stand in his garden, surrounded by the life he had cultivated.
展开▼
