Lilacs

I went to Swarthmore today to smell the lilacs, to go back in time on a scent journey:

There was a white lilac at the top of the ravine beside my childhood home. I'd carry the trash past in the half darkness, the blossoms faintly glowing, sweet. I was afraid of the steep shadowy hill, promised God I'd be a missionary if He protected me from what lurked below. I stayed safe but I didn't keep my promise.

On the way to high school there was a circle of lilacs in the middle of a cul-de-sac, where I stood and inhaled deeply all the cool cruelty of April. The tall bushes leaned in above me as I fell in love and was rejected and reveled in my sad aloneness.

From then on lilacs were part of a pilgrimage to my old unformed self. In Brooklyn taking refuge in the Botanical Garden from the fear and confusion of those days, a whole hillside where I fancied the lighter shades smelled brighter, the darker purples rich and intense. While Emily was at college, I found the Swarthmore lilacs and added the bittersweet memories of the girls' college days, the end of childhood. I've wandered in the Bronx collection or simply stopped anytime a lilac bush is close enough in someone's yard. The primitive pathway of scent goes back to my oldest newest self, the bud just unfolding, my spring self.