My head is buried in flowers, caressing my cheeks, tickling my ears, hugging my chin. My nose drowns in the delicate scent and I hurtle down tunnels of memory to 1955.
We are gathered at the base of the tree beside Grandma's bungalow, as she directs Mother to higher and higher limbs with her shears.
-Cut more, more--over here now, cut more.
Everyone is smiling. There is a never-ending supply of flowers making us drunk on the perfume saturating the still air of that afternoon so long ago. The bundle of cuttings grows, each sprig top-heavy with clusters of tiny flowers. My child-eyes widen at the size of the bouquet cradled in Grandma's fat arms.
The fleeting scent of flowers over 55 years ago.... So pure and simple a thing as that carries me into the new season. I am welded together with generations before me, in an undying love of lilacs--the embodiment of hope and joy that comes with spring.