In our yard, next to the old barn, there grew a lilac bush.
Lilac tree, really. It was big enough for an 8-year-old girl to climb.
When I was sad, or my feelings were crushed,
……. or I was just mad at people,
I’d sit on the third branch up, believing no one could see me.
And then I could cry.
On a day in May, when the full tilt fragrance filled the air,
I stifled my sobs as my mother approached, scissors in hand.
It must have been a Sunday. She was humming a hymn
as she snipped an armload of lilacs for the dining room table.
If she saw me, she didn’t let on.
You might think that’s harsh or unfeeling of her, but I did not.
Some cries belong only to oneself, coming from so deep down
they are invisible to outsiders. Only the flowers and leaves
could see and hear me, and stood guard until sadness subsided
and the crying stopped.
I often came across my mother crying alone after my brother died.
Always late at night, on the couch, with just the TV for company.
I silently got my drink of water or used the bathroom
and crept back upstairs to bed, never looking her way.
Yet I felt her body heave.
My mother and I spent a lot of time screaming at each other.
Too different, or too alike? Both, I suppose. But love between us grew,
even blossomed, as we shed our petals of tears through the years.
I knew she’d died before they called me, I heard the hymn she sang.
……. I miss her.
Especially when the lilacs bloom.
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