The third week of May is when my depressed, alcoholic nation turns into a bunch of sentimental romantics. The lilacs are blooming. Their lush fragrance overwhelms and manages to transform our bleak, Northern souls.
May 1958 in Montreal: You’re struggling to adapt to a strange new city in a strange new land. You don’t have a lot of hope, but you have a Joe job, and a boyfriend who could be Elvis. He snaps off a lilac branch for you as you stroll through Westmount. And you know he’s The One.
May 1982 in Riga: Life is grey. There are drunks sleeping it off on every second park bench. Brezhnev will rule forever. But the air smells like heaven. So you snap off a couple of lilac branches in the park and present them to your favourite old auntie. She’s smitten and twenty one again.
May 2002 in Valois: It’s an old house with a garden full of heritage plants gone wild. As usual, you have bitten off more than you can chew, and have taken on the massive job of pruning the neglected lilac hedge that surrounds the property. You’re hot and sweaty and exhausted from hauling tree-size branches to the curb. But you’re compelled to offer a fragrant bouquet to every lady walking home from the church on the corner.
You’re a hero! Sentimental romantic, that you are.
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