Eventually, my mom planted some lilacs that came from my grandmother's garden. And now this bush, which came from my mother's lilac, lives at my house.
My lilacs are blooming.
Every year, when my lilacs bloom, my mind flies back through the decades to a precise instant in time.
I can't put a date to this moment, but most likely it was spring of my first grade year. As the Michigan snows faded into memory and warm winds dried the last puddles of melt, my whole world filled with wonder at the newness of spring.
Bare legs flashed pale in the sunshine
Breezes stirred through the classroom.
Grass grew green on our school yards.
And as if by the same mysterious script, students began to show up in the mornings with bouquets of fresh lilacs for my teacher.
Glorious handfuls of lush pink-purple blossoms
Twiggy stems wrapped in wet paper towels and plastic bags
Sweet scents filled the warm classroom for days on end.
At home, we did not have any lilac bushes in our yard so this creation was new for me. Anyway, I would have been too shy to bring gifts for my teacher. But as lilac season unfolded and each new bouquet joined the others lined up on Mrs. Newheart's desk (where did she get all those vases??) I was drawn deeper and deeper into their mystically fragrant and fantastically floral spell.
And this is what I think about each and every year when my lilacs are blooming.