Katherine Nicolai

I don't open other people's mail.

And I'm more likely to leave a penny than take one.

But there is one area of my life where I have been known

to be downright criminal.

I am a lilac thief, or at least I was when I came to that crossroads all those years ago and turned.

If you've ever leaned into a bouquet of lilac blossoms,

and breathed in the incredible scent of them.

You might understand what drove me to pack a pair of garden gloves, some snippers, and a basket into the back of my getaway car and sneak out into the country.

I had a few favorite spots I'd already hit that day.

There was a tree behind the library, a spot beside the highway, and a bush that grew through a fence near my house, where I could snag a few blooms.

So I'd driven further out of town, taken random turns with no plan in mind.

I remember it was early enough in the spring.

That sunlight still felt like a novelty, and I'd had to fumble around in my glove box for some sunglasses.

I drove past an old, abandoned farmhouse.

and saw a whole row of lilac trees lining one side of the yard.

I craned my neck as I passed, trying to spot signs of life.

But no, the house clearly hadn't had a resident in ages.

A tree was growing up through part of the front porch, and the driveway was full of tumbleweeds and fallen branches.

But in the same way you can look into a person's eyes and fall in love at first sight, something about the house called out to me.

And after that first timid step onto the drive, the first cautious cutting of a lilac stem, I came back many times,