It's a funny emotional desire; to want what we actually used to have. Ever since the daffodils started opening in my garden, I've had the most horrible nostalgia for . . . forsythia.
Yup, you read me right. That shrub that is much maligned and as common as dirt in the midwest and eastern United States; the shrub that wants to be a fountain of bright yellow and green, and is usually tortured into hedges, balls, or pyramids. We had a lot of it when we lived in New York; so did everyone else.
The best thing about forsythia was forcing it indoors. I would go out every day in March and look for the buds to start swelling; I would always cut some too early and be disappointed when it refused to bloom. But, after the too early cuttings died, I'd cut again; the second cuttings usually bloomed.
Unless it had been a really, really cold winter and I started looking for buds way too early. Then it took three cuttings before the yellow flags unfurled.
Anyway, now we're back in California, the winter is easy, there isn't any snow, and I've had something blooming in my garden every week . . . why am I nostalgic for forsythia? I don't need it to tell me that Spring will come; Spring is already here. Nostalgia isn't logical, apparently.
We were at the nursery today, and guess what I saw? Umm hmm . . . there's a forsythia planted by my front door today. It's yellow. It's Spring.