Ungentum

The wind rises,

and with it the scent;

this is how I imagine purple would smell.

No one else notices the faint

whiff, the subtle exploration

of fragrance through the air.

I close my eyes; the thin stem;

almost like an arrow, widening

then narrow

at the top.

The tiny petals dance

unanimously,

staring skyward.

A box; I remember.

Wooden.

I wear a small black vest over a white shirt.

Little black sandals with gold buckles and white socks;

my shirt tucked in.

Lavender lay down just like him;

My mum pulls me close,

Instinct so soft and tender

not to be released until the wind died down,

until the wisps of hair settle on her tired cheek

and the smell of lavender lingered

undisturbed.

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