The Perfect Fail by Emily Vizzo

Last night was the kind of night in San Diego that starts to make interesting promises about spring. At 10 p.m., the air smelled like flowers, and the curving sidewalk leading to my new apartment was littered with a scruffy blend of dropped white blossoms and palm-sized sweet gum leaves.

In fact, I have been watching this one dark-skinned tree in particular for several weeks, since I first moved in. Feeling a little heartsick these days, I walk beneath this tree every morning en route to my parked car and offer a little unofficial prayer that its reckless blooming will shower something brave and amazing down on me.

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