Lilac Season
poem
I have been thinking about the lilac bush. The lilac bush in our grandparents’ side yard was larger than any bush has a right to be. A cross between a tree and a fort and a playhouse, it kept company with the little house—a summer kitchen for roasts and stews and frying meat to swelter apart from the shaded, blue farmhouse. Our grandparents loved that farmhouse on a hill, and their seven children filled it with stories and laughter and near constant singing. My cousins and sisters and I wore small paths through the lilac bush like mice. We played until the center hollowed out a room. As a child, this felt like an accomplishment. My grandma loved her lilacs, but she loved us more. I can still smell them, richly purple and sweet, so sweet you kept pressing your face into the soft blossoms, risking the bees to breathe their scent and take it in. When I breathe the lilacs in my yard today, my grandparents are with me still. A love like that doesn’t leave you.
This is beautiful! I love the memory you have with your grandma and her lilacs. I adore the smell of lilacs!
"A cross between a tree and a fort and a playhouse,"
"My cousins and sisters and I wore small paths
through the lilac bush like mice.
We played until the center hollowed out a room.
As a child, this felt like an accomplishment."
We had bushes we played in that were like that. I no longer remember what kind of bushes they were, but I remember the feeling of being in that space.