What Stays After Spring
One thing I’ve always liked about Japan is how clearly the seasons move.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
Just little by little.
A few weeks ago, the cherry blossoms were everywhere.
People gathered in parks.
Limited seasonal drinks appeared in cafés and convenience stores.
Even ordinary streets somehow felt softer during sakura season.
Then, almost without noticing, the scenery changed again.
Fresh green leaves replaced the pale pink colors of spring.
Koinobori began appearing above rivers and in quiet neighborhoods.
Children pointed at them from car windows.
Families stopped to take photographs beneath them.
And now, little by little, those koinobori are beginning to disappear too.
I think many of us try too hard to hold onto good moments.
We take photographs because we are afraid something will vanish before we fully appreciate it.
But Japan often seems comfortable with this idea.
That beautiful things do not need to stay forever.
Seasonal sweets disappear from store shelves.
Spring decorations quietly come down.
And before long, umbrellas begin appearing near every doorway as the rainy season approaches.
At first, I thought that was a little sad.
Why create something beautiful for only a few weeks?
Why let entire seasons pass so quickly?
But over time, I started to understand something.
Maybe we remember certain moments because we know they will not stay.
Cherry blossoms would not feel the same if they stayed all year.
Koinobori would not feel special if they remained in the sky forever.
Some things become more meaningful because they end.
I think that is one reason memories from Japan often stay with people long after they return home.
Not because every moment is dramatic.
But because small things quietly appear, then disappear again.
A row of koinobori above a river.
The sound of wind through fresh green trees.
The feeling of slightly heavier air before the rainy season begins.
None of these moments asks to be remembered.
And maybe that is exactly why they stay with us.