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Lilacs Rita DiCarne I didn’t see it coming; the day had me agitated. A routine pass through the school office catches me off guard. Whispers of lilacs, the delicate scent of childhood spring times, summons memories of Philadelphia. Dad in his suspendered blue jeans with his trusty gardening shears is carefully pruning each fragile branch. Mom suspends her afternoon to gently arrange each pale purple sprig. All of us circling the table to inhale the beauty of these perennials. The dining room table, usually a collection of clutter, is now clear and dressed in white starched lace. A crystal vase – imported from Poland overflows with the lavender bouquet, bringing the perimeters of our property to its core.