Lilac Garden Essay

When I was little, my grandmother kept a lilac garden. It was the most perfect place one could think of to waste away the summer days. Though it seems childish and insincere, I dream of this place. I stand amidst the dripping purple hues and breathe in the scent of the crisp, newly bloomed lilacs. Eyes closed, lying in the rich emerald grass I listen to the familiar tune of the bumble bees and take in the sunlight, opening my eyes only when my grandmother’s hums break the easy silence. Then I awake, left only with a faint smile and the sense that I spent my night somewhere miles away.

In my childhood I spent days upon days sitting on the same log taking in the same sights in my grandmother’s garden. I sat counting the blossoms, spying on butterflies and watched as my grandmother carefully clipped away at the blossoms to provide a fresh new bouquet for the dinner table. Though I spent each day doing the same thing, my time always brought me the same sense of ethereal peace. This was and is my home away from home. When we would make our voyage to little Chaffee, North Dakota I would be most excited about running my stubby little fingers through the blossoms; about sticking my button nose into the bushes for maximum scent; about squishing my chubby toes into the luxurious grass. Nothing, absolutely nothing, brings a happier, more peaceful image to mind than that.

Every summer, I would awake in the morning, gulp down a glass of fresh orange juice, swallow my breakfast whole and take off into the sunlight. I would sit in my fortress of lilacs for hours upon hours. I would draw, try to imitate my grandmother’s soft tunes, listen to my mother faintly plucking at her guitar from the porch step while my little brother giggled. I would lie in the grass, crawl under the bushes and catch a glimpse of my brother’s chubby toddler legs trying to keep pace our older brother. I