Here's proof that I don't kill every plant I own. Euphorbia and Rosemary. Nice couple.

After I finished work, I went out into the day and smelled the first girlish breath of spring, button candied and barely warm. This is the stuff that makes me swoon. The stuff that brings a bit of bliss. I want to eat the thumbprint-sized flowers growing in the grass, dropping each tiny white petal onto my tongue like a sweet mint. I want cherry blossom air pumped straight into my lungs.

Spring's fleeting nature is half its allure but every time it arrives I want to slow things down to five-year old time. I want an hour to seem enormous, a day to stretch the limits of my understanding. A week. . .impossible.