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Cherry Blossoms

I thought of him as we followed the path through the trees, and his spirit seemed to permeate everything around us.

The breeze blew, and petals fell like snowflakes.

I have something to tell you, my wife said.

Just then, we reached the end of the path, and my wife said nothing further. We drove in silence to the restaurant.

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My father had passed away last autumn. Yesterday, we followed his last request: we scattered his ashes into the sea.

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Once again, my wife tried her best to use chopsticks.

I took her hand in mine, moulded her fingers into the right shape. I thought of my father, and how he had wanted me to marry a Japanese.

I'll learn, she said.

She lifted the tuna to her lips and took a cautious bite.

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At the hotel, my wife sat in front of the TV, wearing only her underwear. She was watching the news; she didn't understand a word of it, but her eyes never left the screen.

She said it suddenly and without warning: she wanted to have a baby.

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I imagined our future child: half Asian and half white.

Maybe she'll be an artist, with piercings all over her body, and all the boys would lust after her. Maybe he'll be a poet, and all the girls would gather around to listen to his words and watch him with puppy eyes.

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That night, we didn't use contraceptives.

In bed, I opened her legs, knelt between them.

Minutes passed.

A tendon stood out on her thigh, quivering. Beads of perspiration started to form.

"Now," she whispered. Her fingers ran wild through my hair.

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Years ago, on our first date, a black man saw us walking hand in hand. An Asian man with a white woman.

"What's she doing with you?" he said as we passed.

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In bed, I marvel at the foreignness of her. Tiny blond hairs cover her arms and unshaven legs.

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My male friends looked at me with awe and disbelief.

"She's white?!" "Blond?!"

None of them have white girlfriends.

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In bed, her gasps grow louder. I feel her muscles clenching me, milking me.

I hold her down, prevent her from squirming as I thrust into her.

I want her to feel that she is mine.

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Days after our first date, in her backyard, she took me into her mouth. We could see her father sitting in the kitchen reading his newspaper, oblivious.

I realized that dating me was an act of defiance for her.

I spurted into her mouth.

She coughed slightly, swallowed.

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In bed, her gasps turn into moans. Her fingernails dig into my arms.

She is close.

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Her cries echo in the room. She writhes, clutches me, urges me into her again, harder.

She comes, her breath trembling.

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"Come inside me," she whispers.

I stifle my screams with her lips.

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Afterwards, the room is soundless. She sleeps. I cannot hear her breathing.

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Her father warned her once. "He's Japanese. He'll want you to quit your job, do all the cooking and cleaning."

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In the morning, her eyes are shining. The promise of motherhood fills her with something mysterious. I cannot begin to understand it. I only know that I have become a part of it.

I think again of my father, of his dreams of the new world.

I put my ear to my wife's belly, listening for the sound of the heart that has not yet begun to beat.