Lavender
Bees buzz on the lavender
Its herbal smell meanders around, mixing with the newly mown grass
on my hands and shoes
I think about my mother’s hands holding a bunch of lavender, tied with twine
Strong smells of privet waft towards me
But the scent of lavender still there, intense and insistent
The sun burns directly above me radiating red through my eyelids
This vortex of changing reds sucks me down a tunnel
Images float towards me
Clothes on pretty coloured paper in a chest of drawers
A white cardigan appears
Very small
Perhaps if I stay like this, eyes closed, swimming in red, it will come back to me
Whose white cardigan?
Small bags of lavender appear in drawers
The purple scent drifts towards me again on the breeze
That memory, just out of reach; there, but not quite there
Chop chopping from next door brings me back
He’s cutting the privet
That’s why it smells so strong
I fetch secateurs and twine
To tie my own bunch of lavender
I bring it up to my nose
Potent, unquenchable
I place it in a small cloth bag
The bag is for my clothes drawer, the one with the coloured paper at the bottom
I pause, eyes closed, still curating warm memories of red
But now, distinct, I see the white cardigan
The one I went to school in.
Me, five years old
I’m all wrapped up in it
I smelt my sleeve when I was worried
It smelt of lavender from the drawer
I think about my mother’s hands
Old to me then, but now, holding lavender, the same as mine
Photo: Lavender Fields by Wix
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