We have a deal, my neighbors and I . . .
I cut lush bouquets of their lilacs for my house each year, in season, with their clear, if tacit approval, but only when they are not around to witness the act. That way the neighborhood’s most beautiful lilacs are able to benefit from that longstanding understanding that stolen lilacs smell all the sweeter.
And they do smell sweet, my friends.
Perhaps you think me foolish? Unnecessarily superstitious?
I’m not going to try to make my case or change your mind. I know better. But I will offer you this peek at the transformative power such booty may have upon a quiet room, in a house built more than a century ago, with lines no longer quite square or plumb.
Oh that I might be thus adored and adorned when my own bones have aged . . . when I stand yet a little more crooked. May I still able to see and smell that redolent magic that attends each cherished, stolen bouquet of spring lilacs.
And may I always, always remember . . . to be grateful.