Wild, sweet fragrance

Wild honeysuckle cascades down the wood fence south of my front porch. Every time I open the door, the nectar-drunk scent hits me bodily; I feel enveloped in its honeysuckle cloud. I inhale honeysuckle with my nose, my mouth, my eyes, and my arms, as it exhales through the soles of my feet. I feel the pure essence of wild honeysuckle deep in my lungs, inspiring my limbs to breathe in the scent too. My chest fills with the lightness of invisible clouds.

Our wild honeysuckle is technically an invasive weed. In the two years we’ve lived here, I’ve seen the vine quadruple in breadth, overwhelming the cultivated ivy below it. But we’re poor renters here. Our landlords would never spend enough time at our homes to notice their weed-choked flower beds filling with honeysuckle, so why should we bother?

I bank on cultivar indifference. Every year when I smell honeysuckle I am reminded of how homesick for the scent I was during its absence. I yearned for its deep fragrance even though I had forgotten it was missing.

This year, for whatever wild, fanciful reason, I am even more in love with the honeysuckle vine than usual. Quentin Compson taught me a deep power of honeysuckle’s role in our memories, and I feel reverberation of his knowledge every spring. Each breath I take, I pray, “Please don’t let anyone notice this weed and wish it harm. This year, please, let the sacred scent linger longer in my body. This year, let me breath deeper.”

Next year, surprise me again with your wild blossom.