The house I grew up in had a huge cherry tree outside it. It towered above the rest of the trees on our street, and when it blossomed the garden and road in front of our house would be covered in a thick layer of soft pink snow. Even a child raised by feminists can’t resist that level of pretty, let me tell you.

I used to go out and watch the petals silently drifting down from the sky. It was my favourite time of year and as soon as the tree turned pink I would wait patiently, excited for the arrival of summer and the falling of the blossoms.  It was like being in a wonderland, a surreal experience unique to me. I loved to skip through the fallen petals, kicking them up into pink clouds that would flutter back down around me.

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