A Fragrant Memory

I stopped at the store window; it was a Victorian affair. There were dolls in gallant gowns holding smaller dolls dressed up as babies. The door, left ajar, created a magnetic pathway to the senses. It was springtime.

Inside, I was drawn to a display of sweet-smelling sachets in velvet colors. Closing my eyes, the aroma drew me back to the lilac bush at the corner of my mother's garden. Barefoot, I hid there hugging the limbs, peeking out from behind the heart-shaped leaves; sunshine freckled my face.

The creak of the old porch door sang of Mom's coming with her flowered gloves and kerchief. I giggled to no one, knowing she'd never find me.

"Have you seen a little girl around here?" she spoke aloud.

Then, putting her ear to the rose as if listening, she became quiet and waited. And every Saturday she was just as surprised to see me burst from my hiding place before turning to whisper "Thank you" to the rose. Gloved hand on her hip, she looked down at my feet.

"Where are your shoes?" she asked.
"I don't know," I fibbed.
"Did you know that yukky worms live in the garden?"
"And frogs too, Mom! I saw a baby one over there."

My mother's laugh was music to me. She liked me.

"Well, just in case you leave the garden," she said, "you'd better get your shoes."
"I won't leave."
"Get them anyway."
"I hate my shoes," I said.
"Looks like you have to water the pansies then."

Forever I watered the pansies, as well as the picture window, the trees and all the grass I could reach by stuffing my thumb in the end of the hose. Time was a thing unremembered.

The floating purple and yellow faces of my pansies were spared only by the call for lunch. I never remember taking naps; every day was a dream. Half a cookie lodged in my cheek, I dashed out the door, my ear barely holding on to my mother's fading instruction to take my shoes. I ran barefoot to the end of my world, where every moment waited for me under my lilac bush.

I open my eyes, sending the memory back to its home in my heart. Returning the lilac sachet next to an abundance of other scents that never caught my attention; I smile, thanking God for my whimsical mother.