My granny used to tell me that girls once kept sweet shrub blossoms in their pockets in place of perfume. Their heady fragrance clung to fabric and skin, lingering sweetly all day. Wisteria, too, sends its soft perfume on the warm spring breeze, smelling of coming summer and the ozone before lightning.
Sweet shrub and wisteria are also considered invasive. Sweet shrubs spread quickly and generously. Wisteria vines can choke surrounding hedges and twine themselves around trees, overtaking a yard—and, if left unchecked, the woods beyond it. I keep them trimmed, but I can never quite bring myself to cut them down entirely. Their fragrance is too fine, their memories too strong.
Memories are like that.
Here, on the anniversary of my granny’s death, I understand. They come in twining threads of thought and sudden flashes of moments: the scent of her perfume, the dry chuckle of her laugh, her wit, her capable hands.
She planted both shrubs in the yard. They grow because of her.
Their fierce beauty reminds me of her industriousness, her stories, and the steadfast love she had for her family. Even now, she lingers in what blooms.
Cultivate, yes, to tame the wildness. But their presence is always welcome.