Katherine Nicolai

in the early morning outside in the yard and looked up at the window of my bedroom.

I flexed my hand

switching the snippers to the other one and stretching out my fingers.

The lilacs were blooming all around my little property.

Since moving in, I'd planted even more bushes and trees.

I had the classic pale purple flowers, the ones you most likely think of when you hear the word lilac, but also white lilacs, wine-colored,

variegated, deep purple, edged in white, blue and even yellow lilacs.

That variety was called primrose and was one of my favorites.

Several large buckets sat on the back deck, already full of clipped blooms,

but I wanted to feel more for this latest lilac project.

I'd gone from thief to grower, even adding signs along the front drive, inviting others to stop and pick some for themselves.

And now I was bringing the lilacs to the people,

and I was excited.

I liked having folks stop by to smell the flowers, but I wanted to share them with even more people.

A flower that blooms only once a year, and then just for a week or two,

teaches you that time is precious, but things must be enjoyed or lost.

So I'd booked a booth at the farmer's market for the day, and we'd be spreading the love of lilacs with everyone we could.

The lilac booth was a fundraiser for a park project in the village.

The money raised would help plant milkweed and buy sand for puddling spaces for monarch butterflies during migration.

It was for the park across from the elementary school, a place I went frequently.