I step outside and the fragrance of flower blossoms hits me unexpectedly, a pleasant surprise. It is spring. The tree outside of my apartment begins covering itself with new leaves. I noticed them the other day, specks of green amongst bare twigs. I forgot what that tree looked like with leaves on it; this spring will help me remember.

Signs of new life showed up at my mother’s door quite literally. A bird, after building her nest at the top of my mother’s entry door wreath, laid five eggs. It turns out a turtle dove in the backyard is also forming her nest in a small cove made by the gazebo’s folded curtains. Penelope, our family dog, is not happy about it.

I never realized how fragrant spring is in California. Although I grew up here, the seasons never really stood out to me. They all felt and looked the same. In Boston, when I lived out there for three years, spring was visually evident; tulips popped out of small mounds of snow that had yet to melt. Outside of the Boston Public Library at Copley Square, there were rows of yellow tulips blooming against the surrounding dirt where grass would soon grow. In Boston, I could see spring.

But now that I have returned to California, I can smell it. My occasional morning walks are filled with scents of orange blossoms and gardenias. I don’t even have to step outside to experience it. By opening up a living room window, fragrant air flows in and sweetens up the place. Outside of my bedroom window, cherry blossom trees stand with a few flowers. My landlord pointed them out to me last year in May when I first signed the lease; the view of the blossoms made this apartment her favorite.

Although I might have smelled the signs of spring in Boston when I was there or even seen them in California as a kid, I probably wasn’t aware enough to have noticed them then. Maybe I was aware, but my mind has forgotten. But now, however, my nose is my strongest ally. It helps me slow down and return to my body. I could be lost in thought, and the slightest smell of sweet florals helps bring me back to the moment I was in. My sense of smell has become a totem of sorts, a wake up call into reality.