Tonight I came home and, as I fumbled with my keys in the dark, I again noticed the pretty scent in the air. Like a cloud of springtime. So I paused a little longer; paid a little more attention. It couldn’t be perfume: too fresh and natural for that. More like what you’d expect if you were surrounded by hundreds of tiny white flowers. That’s strange, I thought, it’s the middle of January.
The front and back of my house is planted with wonderful green bushes that have kept their leaves through the winter. And there, nestled beneath the leaves? Hundreds of tiny white flowers, fragrant as can be.
The rest of the country lies in wintry waste, and I have fresh blooming flowers on my front porch. This may be my new favorite thing about Seattle.