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If I decided to be a writer, I’d spend time in Tokyo for inspiration. There are so many things that seem like scenes from a novel; a book would almost write itself. Today we stopped at a coffee shop in the small mall underneath the Tokyo Tower. As I approached the counter I realized that the menu on the wall was in Japanese, except for a few headings in English. One of the proprietors observed my confusion and cheerfully presented a large photographic menu with added captions in English. Tracie ordered a hot cocoa and I ordered what I thought was a coffee latte sprinkled with matcha (ground green tea). At the table, while Sarah McLaughlin’s “Building a Mystery” played on cafe speakers, I discovered that I’d ordered a matcha latte. It was deep green and slightly bitter, and looked fairly odd as I stirred the whipped cream into it. I’m not entirely sure that I’d order another one.

I woke up in tears this morning after having a nightmare about Alex. I woke Tracie up and we laughed about the silly things he did, like how he always looked under the refrigerator door when it was open, even though he never found anything under the door after looking for nine years. It’s hard to internalize the fact that he’s dead. He was a constant fixture in our lives and while I intellectually grasp that he’s gone, I haven’t come to understand it emotionally.

A few hours later we were on our way to Tokyo Tower by taxi. I don’t know whether I or the driver saw the accident first, but he was the first to say something as he slowed the taxi. I don’t know what he said; it was a few syllables of Japanese, but Tracie later said that she knew something was wrong just from his voice. A small mini-van was stopped at an odd angle in an intersection in one of the larger roads. The odd angle was what caught my eye. Then I noticed a few people standing around looking confused. One of them started walking uncertainly towards another car as it stopped. Then I saw the motorcycle lying on its side, bits of metal and glass scattered around it. Some of the bits were from a window on the side of the mini-van; the window had a circular hole broken into it.

Japan has even more cell phones per capita than the United States; there was no question that someone among the cars that had stopped had called the Japanese version of 911. Our driver realized that we couldn’t add anything to the situation and drove away slowly. As my perspective shifted I saw the motorcyclist’s body on the pavement. “He did not look like he was alive,” Tracie said a few minutes later. I suspect he didn’t even have time to realize what his fate was about to be, and that he was dead before his body fell to the ground after his head bounced off the window.

Tracie and I have once again been remarkably lucky to reach Japan during the peak of the sakura. The cherry blossoms are glorious. It’s difficult to convey their beauty and the complexity of their associations and ascribed symbolisms. Wikipedia speaks of “an enduring metaphor for the ephemeral nature of life” and their embodiment of mono no aware, or “the awareness of the … transience of things and a bittersweet sadness at their passing.”

I don’t know anything about the deceased motorcyclist. I’m quite sure, though, that his plans for the day didn’t include ceasing to exist well before lunchtime. Now his friends and relatives have to come to terms with a loss far greater than the one which I haven’t yet accepted. It seems particularly tragic to die during such a beautiful time of year, but maybe that’s a projection of the Western notions of tragedy. Maybe his death can be seen as a poignantly timed reminder of mono no aware, ultimately as natural as cherry petals falling from the branches as the blossoms fade.