Lilacs

The view from the narrow kitchen window in the house I grew up in was a fairly stark scene, even in the spring when things began to grow green after those long, cold Kansas winters. Looking out while doing dishes, all I could see was a patch of unenthusiastic grass, some scraggly bushes and behind those, assorted dilapidated farm buildings.

However, just about this time every year this scene faded into the background when the lilac bushes burst onto center stage, decked out in their finery, singing bright, happy songs, cheering up the whole world. They were giant bushes of white and purple blooms, the branches joining with one another to make an arch under which we could walk.

Standing beneath these bushes, breathing in that scent, feeling the small flowers fall down upon my head when a breeze came though, I felt rich beyond belief. These opulent jewels hung heavy and I gathered them in my arms and breathed in their scent. My best friend E and I would sometimes play under the bushes, plucking large blossoms to place behind our ears and laughing at our exotic treasures.

Here in our part of California, lilac bushes are hard to find and they struggle, never growing very large. Just a few years ago, I located one. It was in the yard of a house on my regular walking route and one glorious day I saw it had produced beautiful purple flowers. I went up and breathed in, taking all that scent in, and memories rushed back to me. The people who own it must have wondered about the crazy lady who stopped to smell this bush every day.

This year the bush seems even smaller than most years and the blooms have not been abundant at all. Their smell is not as strong. I stopped a couple of times, but then started passing by without smelling the blooms. I was in a hurry to finish my walk and there were so many other colorful flowers popping up along my route.


Sunday my best friend E, that same one I played with under the lilac bushes, called to tell me that she most likely has a terminal illness that will slowly, painfully, take her life in the next six years.


So this is what a hard kick in the stomach feels like.


E and I became best friends in first grade and she has been a part of the landscape of my life for the past 44 years. Grade school, high school, college, marriage, children, and the loss of parents—we’ve been through it all together. “It’s only half-time!” I told her when we turned 50 together.

Now, well, maybe not.

I am here, 2000 miles from her, helpless, scared, speechless and bruised. I can do nothing at this point except be the best friend I know how to be. I send her a hand-written note through the mail every day and I dedicate my morning walks to her. I send her energy through my walks. I walk hard and I walk fast and I chant, “This is for you. This is for you. Can you feel it?”

And I stop, every single day at the small lilac bush, to touch its less than perfect blossoms, to smell the fading scent, to appreciate the beauty that is still there.

This morning I stopped and stood before it, crying at the sight of the few flowers that remain there. I cried because it is rare to find this kind of beauty on life’s route. I cried because I know that it is fleeting. I cried because I know someday it will be gone.