I’m frequently caught by a waft of fragrance as I pass by our blue hyacinths sitting at the end of the counter. They smell to me of earth and leaves and my grandmother’s florist shop, and though the scent is as strong as a dowager’s perfume, it brings me only good memories. It engenders a bit of hope every time I notice, and the stalks get taller and unfurl their blossoms more and more each day. We stake each shoot up before it breaks so that it will last longer; they get heavy with purplish stars.
The joy and promise of a bulb forced midwinter brings me more than just a flower. It provides me with a bit of green to focus on and nurture in an otherwise white world. It reminds me of tiny buds emerging from dead-looking trees, the haze of weak sun, the smell of damp earth after a rain, and the prickly feel of grass moving from winter growth to lush spring shoots.
Though I know in my head that Spring will come, sometimes my heart feels that the world will never grow again. It rained yesterday and almost melted the snow, so I had a brief glimpse of the ground. As the day wore on, it turned back to snow, dashing my hopes and depositing another couple of inches of fluffy, clean snow over the old. At least it looks renewed, but it was not the look I was wishing for.
For now, the flower-pot in the kitchen serves as a reminder that no matter how bleak or hard things seem, time passes, and seasons turn. The sun will win it’s way through the frosty air and piles of snow, and we’ll be warm once again. Soon.