The lilacs in the backyard are just beginning to bloom: as seen late this afternoon, first in profile looking through the kitchen window; then standing in the garden full-front looking up into them against an azure sky, David Lynch style. My lilac bush has grown from a single cutting brought back to Philly at least twenty years ago from the ancient stand of them behind the old family farm in Dayton (that parent bush I took my cutting from was already old when I was born 70 years ago). I babied that sucker through the first year, doing my best to keep it alive and thriving, because I really wanted a lilac bush, my favorite of all the spring bloomers, in my backyard. Once smelled, never forgotten. It’s a modest bush — nothing like the parent patch back in Dayton, but a source of joy to me every April nonetheless.
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