They taste like my grandmother.
If I close my eyes, I am five again, hiding under the bushes while my cousins race past, oblivious.
It was a good hiding place.
It is hard to pull apart the smells now, though.
When I smell lilacs, I smell the heavy richness of spice.
I also smell the ghost scent, decay and dirt and death, hiding underneath the floral.
For all that our descriptions are visual, we remember far more by scent than we do by scene.
I don’t see lilacs.
I taste them.
I remember years of frozen moments that have nothing to do with flowers.
The Darling Buds will be my week of flowers. There’s no extra meaning to that. I just wanted to write about flowers.
If you would like to see more purple writing, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.