Sticky Fingertips

As I exit the car, the tree attacks me. It grips and twists my hair with its sticky fingertips. It pokes me sharply in my ribs.

“Could you have parked any closer to the tree?” I ask my husband, who’s sliding out of his seat on the tree-free side of the car.

I reclaim my hair, step back and look up. The tree holds out its flower-crowded arms before my eyes, silencing my complaints, my moaning.

I gaze at a million pale pink petals, captivated by their exquisite, abundant beauty.

Andy calls. He holds out his hand and pulls me away from my tree. And, suddenly, the magic shatters. Sadness invades my joy.

As I walk away, time that stood still for just a moment grips the tree once more. It pokes its sticky fingertips into the rose-like flowers, leaving grubby prints upon the petals.

Tomorrow, the day after, next week, the tree will hold out its brown blotched blooms for me to see.

Spring blossoms age.

Seasons change.

Some delights are fleeting.