Every time I pass a lilac bush I think of her, dancing on the edge of the beach in the rain with her arms outspread. She always did smell like lilacs. And she had that something – a certain wildness, like a lilac bush. No matter how much you trim it it always grows exactly the way it wants.

I haven’t thought about her in years, but as I open the window and the warm summer air rushes in, so does her scent. Soft and faint on the wind.

Nothing about the memories are soft. They fall upon me like a tangible weight. Heavy, thick. And so, so sudden.

I suck in a deep breath and sink into a wooden kitchen chair, gripping my cup of coffee like it’s the only tie I have to my world here without her.

All at once, I see her as though she were standing right before me, all bright eyes and freckles. Her green skirts blowing in the beach wind on the docks all those long years ago.

The lilac wind seems to carry her laughter.

And as I finally get up to shut the window, I can’t help the tears.