This will be a quiet post, in a Sunday of quiet posts. We’re at that point, I suppose. If you’re lucky enough to be in the vicinity of a lilac bush in bloom, I implore you to pause whatever you’re doing (even if it’s reading this post – I’ll be here when you return) and go take a deep inhalation of its glorious perfume. It is the scent of spring, the aroma of hope, the fragrance of happy nostalgia. If you had a childhood where lilacs played any part, they probably have similar connotations. For Andy, they remind him of his mother.
I watched as he walked over to the lilac bush we’ve had since we moved into our home, a gift from his departed Mum. That single lilac has multiplied into a couple of stands over the years. Sometimes there is a bountiful bunch of flowers, other times the flowering is spare and sparse. The one constant is the fragrance – always the same, always redolent of our childhoods, of innocent memories. He stopped and breathed in their perfume. There were happy memories in the scented air.
Lilacs remind me of my Mom as well, as they would always be blooming for Mother’s Day. I’d sneak out the night before and wrangle them from their gnarled stands, carefully cutting the stems and putting them in water as part of her gift presentation the following Sunday morning. We also had several groups of them on and near our property, so they reminded me of childhood and the first flush of spring – always a relief after the dour darkness of winter.
The day’s sun begins its slow descent. It lingers longer now, extending its warmth and light, delaying the day second by second. Blue sky backs the cloud of lilacs hovering near Andy’s head as he captures a photograph. The songs of birds mingle with the chirps of chipmunks. Nature has been in a good mood, and we are grateful for this. Sundays should be about gratitude.
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