Rain drums its fingers steadily on the shop window. The door opens, a woman in a rain coat lets in the earthy smell of rain. The soft breeze from outside sweeps past her, swirling delicately through my hair. Resting lightly atop one's skin, cool moisture fringed with warmth and the smell of rain; this is the fragrance of Spring.
However, in a city, there are no wildflowers in bloom, no puddles that reflect so clearly the sunless sky, no bed of dew-moistened grass to rest upon. No silence or space to allow one to admire the pale grey clouds that bloom as wildflowers do. There is only this fragrance to cling to, like memories telling of times long past, times when happiness did not seem so abstract.
And so I cling to the sweet smell of Spring, already fading as the door begins to close. I cling to it as I do to my memories, for both tell of more beautiful times.
