To be or not to be is the question. Hold it. Why do I have to start out dramatic? It sounds weird
to open a story like this. Let’s start from the beginning in the town of Billings. It has become
famous for its growth of cherry blossoms. It is a typical town. Quiet and peaceful. I am an
average person that lives within this town. My name is Rose. I am a typical 16 year old girl. I
have changed so much that when I look in the mirror in the morning I can’t see myself. I used to
have brown hair but now I have black hair with white streaks. I like to keep to myself, but I have
a couple of friends. But most of the time I am in the court yard of my school with a piece of
paper and a pencil. I can only see me, my cherry blossom, my notepad, and my art tools. I have
been an artist since I was seven. Two years before I became an artist my mother died. She had
inspired me so much that she is even in my works of art sometimes. I draw nature; my cherry
blossom is part of all my work. Each picture tells a story.
Everyone knows my work. When I finish a portrait my father makes me put it up so the public
can see it. I used to write my name in the bottom right corner but I don’t have to anymore. After
the first month of putting up my portraits everyone knew it was me. My pictures always have a
cherry blossom in them. Even if the picture has petals.
Cherry blossoms grow in my town on almost every corner. My mother and I would walk through
a trail with cherry blossoms on both sides of us. It is my favorite memory. My mother is gone
now but the memory will never go away. When we took our walk the wind would make the petals
and flowers from the trees fall and turn the ground pink. I would be pulling petals off my head
and throwing them to the wind. My mother and I grew a cherry blossom tree in our yard and she told me that,”every petal that falls from the tree is a new memory.” I took care of my cherry
blossom tree for many years; as the cherry blossom grew I grew with it. It finally became a
magnificent tree. Its branches are decorated with flowers of all shapes and sizes. It looks as
though the flowers were throwing a party because the tree was so bright.
In the spring time I would take a walk through the trail that my mother and I did long ago. I would
see myself as a little girl skipping and laughing next to my mother. When I am not taking a walk
down memory lane I am under my cherry blossom tree. When I sit under the tree I feel my
mother’s presence. I feel as though the tree is my mother, sitting there, watching me as I grow
older. Every Saturday night I would sit under the tree and listen to music and draw. My friends
would invite me out but I never said yes. The tree was my sanctuary. My father would sit next to
me on some nights and tell me stories of him and my mother when they were younger. Every
story he told me a flower fell on my head. I would love to hear my father tell stories and I felt as
thought my mother loved to hear them, too.
