There's a moment in the middle of winter when the recession of color, the dry apartment heat and the increasingly colder weather start to make you yearn for some kind of hopeful promise of spring. It was exactly this kind of yearning that found me in the flower district of Manhattan the other day looking for something, anything, to bring home. I was too late, it was an impulse I had after running some errands in midtown and most of the shopfronts on 28th street were shut by the time I got there.
Walking back to 7th Avenue after concluding halfway down the street that the effort was futile, I spied on the other side of the street a large open bag of floral outcasts with a bunch of pussy willow jammed into the top. They were perfectly fine, I rescued them and pressed them close to me in the jammed after work No. 3 train and here they are now, at home - my promise of spring- free of charge.
