Two weeks ago I took the 441 bus from Haymarket Square in Boston to Marblehead. My uncle was waiting at the stop. He was in good form, considering having suffered from a slight stroke earlier in the winter. My aunt was on her way home and the two of us walked over to Fort Sewell. The weather was unseasonally warm and I spotted a flash of purple sprouting from the winter withered grass beneath the brick casements.
A flower.
The first of spring.
I wanted to say it was a lilac.
It was March 10.
My uncle and I looked at the flower in amazement.
“Can’t say that I’ve seen a flower this early in the year.”
“Me neither, but in London I visited a garden in Putney Heath and there were flowers on the trees.”
“Is that normal?”
“I don’t think so.” There is not much normal about the weather now.
“Let’s go meet your aunt and then we can have lunch at the Barnacle.”
The fried clams at the Barnacle were straight out of the sea.
“Sounds lovely.”
As would any day sound when first flower of spring came in winter.