The lilacs in Groton, Massachusetts, hung their heavy heads over Martins Pond Road, and when I would go for runs in those days I would look forward to their company. You didn’t have to sniff each individual flower. The scent was everywhere, part of the general spring exhalation.

I’m not a lilac expert, but I can tell these plants aren’t suited for D.C.’s warm, humid climate. Still, I have a transplanted one my brother gave me a dozen years ago, tucked away in what would seem to be a perfect corner of the yard. Every year I scan it for blossoms; every year I’m disappointed.

Yesterday I tiptoed up to the lilac and searched for flowers. There were the familiar glossy leaves, the sprig of forsythia which somehow started growing at its base. I was almost ready to walk away when I saw at the very tip-top the palest hint of lavender. It was a slender, anemic-looking blossom, but a blossom just the same.

It has a way to go before it looks like this lilac, which I snapped last weekend in Lexington. But it’s a start.