When the first lilacs of spring appear, she can sense them, much like a water witch can feel a hidden stream. Her eyes light up in the manner of a child beholding their freshly wrapped holiday gifts. A smile, simple, yet as warm as new sunlight, stretches across her face. This is when she is the most alive.
She skips down the lanes, playfully picking her favorite flower. Even on the strange streets and in hidden places, she knows where they are. She fills her arms full of lilacs. A bridal bouquet for her prince charming, who has been in her mind's eye and heart since before she liked boys, or even knew what they were.
Empty bottles of esoteric wines become her flower vases. Her home becomes a riot of purples and whites. The perfume scent lasts long after the lilacs fade.
It's always with with heavy sigh and a bit of remorse when she bits farewell to her lilacs, once their time is finished. She never says goodbye, because that's too final. It's always an until next time. Then, she starts counting the days until she'll feel them bloom again. When she can harvest her bouquets and nostalgically dream of her prince charming she picks them for.