On my desk is a twig off a tree, with a small, waxen flower comprised of 5 petals and some yellow stamens in the middle, tiny things really.

And they cluster, the flowers. They do. The leaves are long, and slender. And usually so high up in the tree branches, you don't notice the leaves, nor the flowers.

You only notice the scent.

That scent knocked me for a loop when I first saw Shakespeare in San Diego at the Old Globe Theatre, when I was 14 (prior to the first one burning down, thank-you-very-much). It filtered into my brain, delved deeply into my dreams. (I *was* Juliet, I could smell the scent of the trees!)

It knocked me for a loop again, 20 years later, when I started running along San Vicente, from 26th street to Ocean and back - 4 miles, total, in case you're wondering. Every spring, that scent would just absolutely send me spinning into ecstasy.

We walked over the weekend, trying to get into walking shape for Paris. My nostrils were assaulted by the wonderful scent of 'the tree', and I halted my spouse. "Smell that!" I said. "I must have that tree in our yard, somewhere. That smell is Balboa Park. It's Starlight Opera. It's the first year of California Ballet's Midsummer Night's Dream. Hell, it's heaven, to me."

He nodded absently and we went on our way.

Yesterday, when I'd had the most hideous evening imaginable due to stupid writers' group politics, my husband came home, bearing a small branch of this tree with blossoms attached. (Apparently it's a staple at college campuses in So. Cal.)

Blossoms filled with scent. I fell in love all over again. And my love? The sweet words he whispered were, "take this to the nursery and find out what kind of friggin' tree we're talking about. Okay?"

Okay! Absolutely! And in the meantime, I revel in the scent of heaven.