Remember

My haste takes me away from what surrounds me. The tree that needs trimming brushes against and catches my hair as I pass under its branches—an unspoken reminder of what else needs attention in this explosion of greenery and decay. I slide my garden gloves on and lift the shovel into the yellow, rusty wheelbarrow, fill it, then drop dark chunks of compost around the rosebush. Repeating this task, the shovel—with a mind of its own—slams against the wheelbarrow with a clang, spilling the murky contents onto the grass. I stop now, exhale impatiently, and look around.

Yes, the jasmine grows wildly outside of its obelisk, sprawling onto the gravel, but its bright, wild scent also fills my lungs. What is the smell of jasmine on a summer morning? Now its scent seems tinged with the rains of the night, and mixes also with the scent of old roses. The red William Shakespeare invites me to slow down, the Abraham Darby joins in too, reminding me why they’re here. I cup the bowl of its flower in my ungloved hands, feeling the softness of its apricot-colored petals. I lower my head and inhale. Yes, it says, this is why you brought us here. To breathe these still, fragrant moments into your body, into your heart. To remember.