It’s not really spring until the lilacs are in bloom. Well, here, the lilacs are blooming, but the temps a few days ago were in the 80s. Springtime, where are you?

My grandmother used to have a lilac bush in the corner of the front yard of her house—the same house my father grew up in and as a kid helped rebuild after a devastating fire, the same house where my parents and I lived for a short time when I was six and the same house that stayed in the family until a few years ago. Just a mile down the road from where I now live, it was the home of my grandmother whom I mentioned briefly here. I don’t remember if her lilac bush was the first I ever saw, but I always think of her when I smell its sweet, mild fragrance, and I always look forward to the lilac’s first blooms. And that has been my memory of lilacs until…

Our friend K, who, after having had a whiff of the lilacs I brought in from the yard one afternoon, announced, “Hmmm, smells like my girlfriend’s underwear…” AYE YAYE YAYE. Although not too embarrassed to blurt out that bit of freakish nostalgia, he was too embarrassed to explain any further. Thank goodness.

Now, I’m not blaming anyone, but that was the last summer my lilac bloomed. It died that winter. Died of humiliation, I’m sure.

(This is one of the first lilacs that I found this spring at Green Spring Gardens park.)