where the writers are

I remember childhood in springtime,
coming in from the backyard
(in shorts and already with a touch of sun)
through the musty garage,
opening the old screen door and then
the kitchen door,
the sweet scent of lilacs greeting me anon
though in the other room,
atop the piano.
Violets and whites
cut from bushes flanking my swingset.

Decades later
I introduced him to them
on a weekend getaway.
I asked permission from a stranger
to cut some lilacs from her yard,
perfumed our bedroom with them.

Once home
I pressed our blooms,
placed them in a wallet sized frame,
bordering purple with je t’aime
over and over,
all around,
a remembrance for him
of me.

That year he planted a lilac bush,
but it did not survive.

His black-eyed Susans remain.

The gift of lilacs still hangs above his kitchen sink,
a daily reminder of happiness that once was.


 (c)Susan Sonnen