After my unxpectedly 11-hour work day, the J-Man and I went for a walk through our neighborhood tonight.  I walk fast–some might say I power walk, because I do–but I also stop a lot to pet cats (one of the regulars is an orange tabby names Plix) or read real state fliers (a bungalow goes for $289K).  This evening, as the J-Man and I slipped in the unusually chocolatey-brown mud, I stopped him under a low-hanging voluminous bush.  It had tiny, waxy buds of ivory flowers, and it’s the kind of bush that I smell everywhere in Georgia in the spring.  It might exist other places, but I might never leave Georgia just because I don’t want to take that chance.  It doesn’t smell particularly perfumey, like a lily of the valley, but it smells like a flower should, with an almost plasticy scent mixed in. 

“Smell this,” I instructed him.  “It smells like field day!” he exclaimed.  And it really did. It smelled like when the weather got warm enough to wear acid washed jean shorts to school and to have a relay race with water balloons.  I even reminisced aloud to the J-Man about the  5th grade field day when the teachers arranged for a fire truck to (gently) spray us with water after the game day, and every girl but me reacted by saying, “Ohmahgod, you’re gonna be able to see my bra!”  To which I responded, “What’s a bra?  Let’s play.”  And as I grew up, the scent of those nameless bushes still meant misguidedly anticipating prom (it was dumb after all) and studying outdoors in my college’s quad, and it meant that winter was over and that I could cut back to 25 mg instead of 50 mg of Zoloft, because the spring means that much to me.  I think I also love how imperfect that bush it, and how whether I’m driving through LaGrange or Atlanta, there it is.