For the past two decades of living in the DC–Maryland–Virginia region (colloquially, the DMV), one of my most awaited annual rituals has been the cherry blossom season. There is something about watching the city transition from winter’s grayness into the softness of spring that never loses its impact.
The peak bloom itself is fleeting, just a handful of days when every tree around Tidal Basin is awash in pale pinks and whites. Petals flutter through the air like confetti, carried by the slightest breeze. And then, for a few days, sidewalks, parks, and water edges are covered in a delicate carpet of pink.
In earlier years, we were religious about deliberately going into Washington, D.C. to capture the cherry blossoms. The blossoms framing the monuments, the light hitting just right, and the sense of awe with which both tourists and locals took it all in. But over time, the way I experience blossoms has changed.
Now, it is often a glimpse on the way to work. A sudden stretch of trees in bloom that makes you slow down for just a second. Or discovering a perfectly blooming tree tucked into a quiet street in our neighborhood, far from the crowds and the cameras. The experience feels more personal, less about capturing and more about noticing.
And yet, every year, it still feels magical. The first sight of a street framed with cherry blossoms still lifts my spirits and brings a smile to my face. The blossoms come and go so quickly, but they leave behind a quiet reminder. Winter ends. Spring will come and it will be beautiful.