There are days that vanish too quickly, particularly many days populating the month of April when there are floral explosions so exquisite and heartbreaking that we should all walk away from the computer, get out of the car, leave the meeting and just roam among the lilac. Lilac. That’s especially what grabs me by the scruff of the neck, shakes me back and forth like a lost kitten and drops me on the ground.
I also have the annual ritual of going to my mother-in-law’s house, where I click off bundles of white, dark purple and regular lilac-lilac, and make us both vases. The sad part is that within a few days, the lilac starts browning and curling into death although the scent holds steady.
There’s no flower I’ve written so many poems about or immersed my face in while sinking and rising through the long marathon of strong emotions. Lilac holds memory and desire like the embodiment of what T.S. Eliot writes about the month of April. In fact, whatever we’ve experienced or yearned for or still yearn for can be found simply by inhaling lilac.