For the first time, in a long time, forsythia in bloom. Granted, nestled in a sunny sheltered south exposure, and still, can you recall the last time you saw those golden yellow flowers, made like a child might draw his first night-time star, in the middle of a prairie April?
I was driving to the boulangerie when those blossoms caught my eye. Yes, we have one here in our prairie city. The real deal owned by a real French baker. The testament to his fine levain loaves, a line up of folks, big and little, out the door and onto a sidewalk bordered by bicycles, baby buggies and scooters. I smile to myself coming upon the scene, imagining how much more Parisian than here in my own winter weary prairie city.
Taking my place, feeling a bit pressed for time, I acquiesce to the moment and notice in front of me the iridescent wisp of colour in a child’s hair.
“Tell me, how did you catch a rainbow in your hair?”
Her fit and handsome father shares the story of his sister, their aunt – gesturing to his two other daughters a bit further down the street, each with barely-there colour shot through their dark manes – treating them to this bit of feminine whimsy when they visited her in Nelson a month ago.
“Hard pressed to say ‘no’ when she does me the gift of babysitting,“ he shrugs.
“When in Nelson…” I smile in return.
By this time all three sisters huddle in together with us, now perched in the doorway, on the threshold of reaching our morning’s shared destination.
“Do you have children?” he asks.
A quiet “no” and gentle shake of my head. Inside, I’m surprised he thinks me young enough. Then again, it might simply be the way I engage with his.
Loaves chosen, bagged and tallied. His for lunch with family, tomorrow’s brunch with friends. Mine for tonight’s dinner I’m eager to prepare for my husband and me, to re-create the crostini sampled at last week’s cooking class.
Goodbyes exchanged, together with wishes for a good day.
Driving home, those forsythia again catch my eye as I wonder who else to invite, to share with me my sudden love of this splendid spring? The fine French baguette and a bottle of good wine? The heady perfume of purple hyacinth? The golden glory of those first time in a long time forsythia? The memory of three young sister-beauties with the colour of spring woven in their dark hair, wishing for a moment they were mine?