They're too early, the lilacs,
giving off their scent before mid-May.
One year it was nearly June,
the turn of the new century,
my summer in the hospital.
The first week was confusion
and floor plans and schedules
and being late for chapel
because I got off at the wrong floor
and couldn't find my way back down.
At the end of the week,
I stood in the backyard
looking up at the blossoms
lavender and white and deeper purple
and undertones of pink.
I sat on the swing like a little girl
and breathed in the beauty
heavy and sweet
filling my head with dreams.
Did they ever smell more vivid?
That summer I misbehaved.
I smoked in the treehouse
and danced at a club
and stayed in bed all Saturday
staring at the ceiling.
In the hospital I prayed
over tiny babies
and hopeful mothers
and trying-to-be-forgiven saints
and eaten-alive sinners.
At home, the lilacs went by
the grass grew wild and sharp
and filled the air when cut,
a different weight than lilacs.
The scent of summer, not spring.
When the lilacs bloomed that year
I didn't know who I was, quite.
I wanted something,
maybe me, whoever that was,
vivid and sweet and pink and white.
Ten more years of lilacs,
and I still go out and smell them.
I sit on the swing and dream,.
discovering something more
as I lean into their fragrance.
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