Along my morning walk is a fence with a wisteria entwined in its woven wire. Branching from a corner, it runs predominantly along the north-facing side. During the winter, its heavy vines are dormant, bare. In summer, it is lush with lance-shaped leaflets. For a brief time in early spring, however, it is dense with fragrant lavender blossoms. Although I walk by every day, these blossoms seem to be quickly replaced by copper-toned new-leaf-green foliage. Two weeks ago, when only a scarce blossom remained, replaced by newly profuse leaves, I crossed paths with a couple out pushing a baby carriage. I was immediately taken back to when I used to take my children out for air, walking the same sidewalks. The memory brought a sharp pain as I measured the distance from those difficult, but sweet days.

Today I passed another yard, one where a chaste tree was preparing its lavender and purple blossoms. When these petals will unfurl, I cannot guess. But I will walk by every day and every day I will inhale the astringent odor of its leaves, rubbing them from time to time between my fingers so that I may carry that fragrance with me while I wait for the tight buds to bloom.