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God of the Lilacs

By Alfred Stefan Guart

The sun was out and a warm spring breeze signaled winter’s drawing to a close. We walked along a quiet side street when the fragrance offered by a small Lilac bush caught us. I approached the neglected looking shrub and drew close to one of its few flower clusters. Eyes closed, I inhaled.

The aroma was sweet and light with no trace of Earth. The perfume existed in an ethereal world, free from the soil, the roots, the branches and even the tiny purple flowers that released it. It was pure, distilled to its essence and true only to itself. There was freedom.

Inhaling again; carefree innocence. The Lilac bush was giving away its prize fragrance with abandon and the intoxicated Breeze was announcing it to the world. Lilac and Breeze played gleefully like children on a seesaw. There was joy.

One last breath. This perennial scent could elevate everyone – or no one. No matter. It called no place home, save for this moment. Invisible, yet undeniably real, it was untouchable. I stepped back. There was eternity.

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