It was January 9th when I found the lilac.

I live in Los Angeles. Lilacs don’t bloom here, not really—not in January. But there it was, growing quietly on the edge of a morning walk with my dog Heidi. Its scraggly form almost went unnoticed, but I know lilac bushes very well, and stopped mid-step. I got close to the tiny flower, breathing in the fragrance.

A Favorite Flower, A Familiar Date

My mother loved lilacs. We had them on our farm in Minnesota—fragrant, fleeting blossoms that would come for just a few weeks each spring. I’d gather bouquets and scatter them around the house like confetti for the soul. Two weeks of magic, if we were lucky. We were always grateful.

January 9th is my mother’s birthday. She had already transitioned to the other side when I found this bloom. And when I saw it, I knew. No grand message. Just a scent, a presence, a quiet whisper through memory.

I picked it and brought it home, placed it in a little vase in the kitchen. “Hi mom. What’s up?”

This story is woven in both word and image. 

 If this glimpse speaks to you, the full reflection is on Substack: Lilac in January, a Norwegian Sweater, and a Birthday Message from Beyond

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