A beautiful cherry-blossom tree stands right beside the sento (public bath) I religiously go to, and its top branch hangs over an opening in the roof. In early April, petals were falling from the branch down into the water, which comes out of the ground the color of strong coffee.
Until last year, I looked forward to that season at the bath, as if the pale pink petals atop the black smoking water were a symbol of the coming together of heaven and hell.
But on April 9, 2010, one of my dearest friends, the playwright and novelist Hisashi Inoue, passed away, age 75; and this year like last, those petals floating on the surface of the water only brought thoughts of the end of a precious friendship that lasted for more than 35 years.