Lilacs

Lilacs are my favorite flower.

Why?

Well, years and years ago, fifteen of them to be exact, I met this crazy guy at the Westbury in Philadelphia. His name was Richard. He was crazy and verrry sexy. Sex with him was wonderful. In fact, given my tender age, it was some of the best sex with one of the hottest men that I'd known.

And there was his life, too. He had this amazing loft. Down in Old City. All dark wood and ochre walls. It reminded me of a viennese coffee house. We saw each other a few time before... well, I guess before he decided that twenty-something me was a little more than forty-something him wanted.

On one of the final times we were together, his loft was filled with lilacs. I mean filled. Lots and lots of lilacs. In bed, my nostrils were filled with the aroma of his sweat and the scent of lilacs.

"What's with the lilacs?" I asked.

He smiled.

"I like lilacs," he said. "I thought if I bought them they'd make me happy all the time," he added with quiet irony.

At least once every Spring, I treat myself to lilacs. When I buy them, usually as many as I can afford, and I think to myself, "Now I'll be happy all the time."

I think of lilacs as the flower of wisdom. The wisdom that comes with age and experience. The wisdom that knows that Happy All The time is a chimera. It ain't gonna happen. But at the same time, it's the wisdom that tells you that if you aren't always at every moment open to Happy All The Time, then you'll never see it.

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