The half moon radiated through the fuzzy, starless sky while ajima's arms rotated in wide breast-stroke circles, mixing deep-fried sweet potato slices into the rice-cakes and sauce. Every time I go to her stand she charges me the same amount, but gives me a little extra. Her little extra is bigger and bigger every visit, until the sweet and spicy take away of my most recent visit nearly doubled the take away of my first. Swinging the black plastic bag of street-cooked dinner and joy at my side, I forgot to stop and pick up milk on my way home, because instead I smiled and thought about the promise of spring embroidered across the front of ajima's forest green apron: Cherry Garden.
So many words in so few sentences. I'm sorry reader, but that's just how good it was.