I measure my years by the lilacs

I measure my years by the lilacs. Some people measure time by moons, by Christmases past, birthdays or warm, lush summers. I measure the passage of time with the blooming of May’s lilacs. Each May the violet blooms burst forth with their sexy scents and their intricate flowers and I fall in love all over again. I’d have to say that they are my most favored flower. I imagine being on my death bed one day, and someone asking me for my heart’s pleasure because when you are dying people are so accommodating, unlike in real life. I would say “Bring me a giant bouquet of lilacs.” And then of course if it didn’t happen to be May, I would be out of luck, wouldn’t I? So does that mean I will have to make sure I die in May? This is the kind of sick scenario I think about. But each May when the lilacs bloom I bury my face in their flowers, marveling at their tiny individual flowers that give us an explosion of perfume and color just for a few weeks out of the year. The rest of the year I pass the lilac bush with hardly a look; maybe with an occasional “See ya in May my good friend!” comment. I measure my years by the lilacs. I think about “One year, it will be the last May that you get to see and smell them,” which is really just a pretty neat analogy of life. It doesn’t last forever. It’s beautiful, fragrant and gone way too fast. So each May I greet them with a smile and my pruning shears. I love the lilacs and want to hold onto them forever. I measure my years by the lilacs.