THERE is a certain time of year that always stirs something deep within me, a gentle reminder of childhood, community, and the quiet resilience of West Belfast. As the days lengthen and the light softens, my mind returns to Gibson Street and to my Granny McCusker’s front and back windowsills, alive with indoor plants and carefully tended flowerpots. They were not just decorations. They were nature’s way of whispering that spring was on its way.
