Late spring to early summer in Buffalo evokes sense memories: the sight of tiny yellow and purple crocus buds magically appearing atop the white bed of snow; the sound of big rain plops, scary thunder and branch-rattling wind; the feel of humid, cool, soft air draping everyone in promise (”Hey! It’s not freezing anymore!”); and the absolutely intoxicating smell of those fluffy, bushy bud-filled branches that grew in my Auntie and Uncle Art’s backyard near the old UB campus–lilacs.

In early June 1963, when I was ten, I dutifully held a bunch of those lilacs in my lap, waiting impatiently for my father to take the picture already. I wished he would hurry so I could go home and play with my friend Barbie. But somehow, the powerful, beautiful scent of those lilacs sucked every thought out of my head. After the flash went off, Auntie Irene took the flowers and put them in a big glass vase.

I haven’t held a bunch of lilacs in my arms since I left Buffalo. I’d like to think that they are still sitting on the table by the blue-green chair in her living room.