The lilac is about to bloom.
My yard is a mess. The lawn is mostly crabgrass and clover, with a few dozen hyacinths that have escaped the confines of their beds. The dandelions will rear their heads later. The patio furniture is covered in yellow pollen—not that we have a patio, exactly, just a flat spot near the house—and I’m not inclined to sit outside until I motivate enough to clean the chairs. But at least we have a yard, and the lilac in the corner is about to bloom.
Spring is not my favorite season; I associate it with restlessness and sneezes, with damp socks and uncooperative hair. In Portland, it’s generally soggy, sodden, grey and cold. But this is the only place I’ve lived where spring comes when the calendar says it should. It’s not just an afterthought or a brief muddy interlude between “snow” and “mosquito.” The equinox comes, and on its heels, a true and separate season.
And suddenly there are lilacs and daffodils, camellias and magnolias and azaleas. Even the names of these flowers are lovely: they sit on the tongue like the droplets of nectar stolen from honeysuckle blossoms. (Honeysuckles come later, when the days are long and lazy and we’ve forgotten the taste of rain.) Across the quiet and unnervingly deserted street, the sweetgums are just starting to bud and a number of birds’ nests are cradled in their branches, tangled knots of twigs and grass visible against the sky. Some afternoons I sit on the front stoop and listen to the robins singing their little hearts out.
I can’t count the number of years I’ve missed the lilacs altogether. It’s so easy to lose track of time. I catch a whiff of fragrance and when I turn around, the overlong grass under the tree is littered with wilted blooms. This year, though, I’m watching and waiting, back door cracked open to let in the first hint of perfume. Today the sun is shining, and I think I might dust off the chairs after all.