Spring has been a little more flirtatious in Montreal. Initially there was some doubt whether or not it would even come – snow and cold dominated the weather reports. But then, one day, I realized that spring had indeed sprung. Here, nature is much more common than it was in the concrete jungle. My street is lined with trees – I pass numerous parks on my way to school– people bicycle to work without the fear of being killed by taxis or limited-edition luxury cars. Unlike NYC, there is a sense that we live within nature rather than around it. Nature is not something to visit here.
As I made this realization, I also discovered that there are a plethora of lilac trees here. Every other building seems to be flanked by an assorted variety of the flower. Their fragrance is everywhere, wafting in open windows and tapping you on the shoulder while reading in the park. The smell and the sights transport me to younger, simpler days. Ever since I was a small child, lilacs have been synonymous with my Grandma Butler. In her backyard there were several trees that we would play in, hide among, and collect the blossoms from. We would gather armfuls – disregarding the allergies – and bring them inside. It was the smell and sight of home, unconditional love, good food and peace.
I have long referred to my Grandma Butler as my muse. For the last years of her life, due to ill health, she was confined to lying on the couch. She would instruct Grandpa to purchase sheet music for various songs and then she would have me play them and sing for her. Showtunes, church songs and an occasional power ballad made up the majority of the offerings. This being the late 90's, inevitably Bette Midler's anthem, Wind Beneath My Wings, found its way to Grandma's piano. Grandma and I both had a penchant for the sappy and so I willingly dove in and mastered the piece. Grandma's health was failing even more, the cancer was taking its toll, but the song seemed to stop time – at least for that moment. One day, after a particularly impassioned rendition of the song, Grandma turned to me and said, "Jay-bird, you're going to sing that at my funeral." My heart sunk, but how could I say no? "Whatever you wish, Grandma. Anything for you." And a few months later, that's just what I did – standing in front of a church full of people, with my brothers and a vase of lilacs, I did Grandma proud.
Grandma never knew that I was gay – or at least we never talked about it. At the time, I was barely coming to terms with it myself and I was engaged in the process of trying to change it. But you know, I think eventually it would not have mattered to her. She was my biggest fan – having Grandpa wheel her to all of my performances and graduations, wanting to know the details – good and bad – of my life. Her smile was radiant and her touch was as close to healing as anything I've encountered. Shortly after her passing, in a moment of personal despair and major depression, I had a vision of my Grandma. Accompanied by the smell of lilacs, I saw her sitting next to me – looking healthy and vibrant. She gave me a big smile, patted me on the leg – and then she was gone. And a muse was born.
Now, as I make my way through this beautiful city – this city that has come to life after a long winter – I am reminded of her on every corner. Yes, I still get misty. But I also am filled with hope and a reminder of who I am and the amazing heritage I have. In fact, as I'm sitting here typing this, my window is open and following a brief spring shower, I can now smell that familiar scent – fresh and wet and alive. And, you know what? Life is good. I am in the right place.
Thanks Grandma – I'll go pick a bouquet just for you.
