I am seduced by a late-flowering sprig of cherry blossom in the morning. Number Two Son -- all of 6 years old -- thoughtfully snags my nose with it as he lays it on my pillow. Feelings of undying gratitude are quickly spiked by concern about provenance. Not our garden, not the neighbors', not the nearby park -- is it plucked from some poor innocent's terrace on the way to the convenience store?