March. Sunny and crisp, the breeze through my window whispers about spring. My brother lives near Reno now, but calls and we talk excitedly about his three-year-old and our mother, our family, their sad ramblings, a job we worked together years ago in a place still filled with characters and strippers. Energetic conversation pulls like putty, stretching at times to distortion. We laugh, even if we don't remember the Depeche Mode concert. Before long he has to go: his wife on the other line making plans for dinner, just the two of them. I grab my smokes and head outside, before it's night again and time for work. Standing in front of the building, I smoke a menthol, the branches of the Japanese Cherry holding blossoms, sunlight, and leaves, dancing carefully in place.