Sniffing Springtime

As I was walking to the library this afternoon, I caught a whiff of a scent that immediately took me back to childhood. I have no idea where it came from, but suddenly I smelled Lily of the Valley. I remembered the way the little plot of rounded stones in front of my house would suddenly erupt each spring with green leafiness. I would check in the leaves every afternoon to look for the tiny, spindly stalks beginning to appear, then wait with excitement as first small green orbs formed, then as they turned white and opened into tiny, silent bells. I would tiptoe so carefully, trying to find open spaces in the carpet of foliage, and pluck the tiny carillon stems one by one until I had handfuls of spindly, fragrant flowers. Then I would take them inside, put them in a glass in the dining room, and spend the next week finding every excuse to walk through that room, just so I could catch their scent in the still air. As lovely as the spring flowers are here, today I didn't see them. I saw only bouquets of Lily of the Valley in my imagination.