The spring day when after the dark subway the light was blinding and the last of the snow melted, trickling into the gutters, but still there was the scent of fresh snow. Work was over at last and there wasn’t a thought of tomorrow. There were flowers like lit candles on the corner near Old South Church and just enough money for daffodils that came dripping from the bucket, daffodils carried home to our room. where we sat without having to talk. And I became part of the sun-struck halo, the snow-washed high windows, the silvery mirror, voices rising from the street, walls saturated with ghost music, passengers peering from train windows and those arriving to vanish in the distant Back Bay streets.