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On a Friday afternoon, I planted two cherry blossom trees. One flowering white, one pink. I grafted them together, wanting them to grow intertwined. I imagined years of springtimes to come with their different blossoms mixing, covering the ground. I imagined them us, a live monument in our image. Something less finite than our bodies. Slowly you stopped loving me, and the trees were not cared for properly. Helplessly, I watched them wither. Finding one of the trees toppled over on the ground, I decided to confront my failures and stop holding on. I came back to the site a week later to finally uproot the trees for preservation but they were gone. I stood with each foot in the two holes where they once lived.