Dreaming of lilacs

I will be sleeping on lilac-scented sheets tonight.

Oh, don’t worry. I haven’t gone all fancy and started putting scented sheets in the dryer.

What dryer?

I’m hanging my sheets on the clothesline that runs parallel to a row of lilacs in my backyard. The scent is so strong that I took my time pegging items to the line, lingering in the sunshine, blue skies and the scent of lilacs carried on the brisk wind that will dry my laundry in no time.

The lilacs are both practical and whimsical. They give privacy in my tiny little backyard, taking up precious room that I really don’t have to spare. The first bush was planted by Dad, dug up from his yard and carefully planted in mine.

I soon enough knew that one wouldn’t be enough, so on every trip home I would dig seedlings until I had a sturdy row of loveliness marching along the neighbor’s fence line.

To me, lilacs are the strongest sign of spring. When daffodils don’t bloom and rabbits bite the head off tulips, the lilacs persevere, scenting the air with the most delightful aroma that says spring and home and Dad.

Yes, it was Dad who was all about the yard and flowers and bushes and vegetables. Mom always had flowers on the table, but it was Dad who provided them.

So when I fall asleep taking deep breaths of lilacs, I will also be breathing in the history of home and family.

That’s a pretty good way to fall asleep.

 

 

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