 Scent is a hallucinogen, a magic, transporting drug. Lilac blossoms in a jar remind me of my mother. One night when Mom was dying, Jim and I stealthily clipped blooms off a neighbor’s tree, to offer Mom a precious scent memory. On my daily dog walks, I’ve watched a bed of lily-of-the-valley progress from needle shoots to bladed leaves. Days later, from within the green curls, filaments emerge, decked with tiny buds. The buds swell into a carillon of white bells. I smell them before I see them. I kneel down, place my hands carefully on the soft ground between plants, plunge my nose into the air surrounding the bell-like blooms, and inhale. I am home, under the rhododendron bushes in my childhood back yard. Mom is inside, the dachshunds are sniffing around, maybe my siblings sent me in here to fetch a kickball, knocked out of bounds. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 279: 148 words, TOTAL = 46,949; 13,051 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
January 2021
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