344: Jacaranda Bells (written Friday 11 November 2016)
-originally there was no title-
It is a fine spring day. The sun shines, a zephyr blows, the clouds shimmy across the sky, the plants are alive and the jacarandas are in full bloom. The zephyr sings in the trees. A bird tweets, perhaps calling its lover. The jacaranda tree is my favourite. It amuses me. It inspires in me a sense of freedom, of enlightenment, of passion. They line the sides of West Street close to school. Bits of purple heads are littered across the ground. Internally I weep for the little heads who have become brown from being stepped on. I weep for which becomes a part of the pavement. Should a shower or gusty wind makes a stop in town, the pavement will be clean in the morning.
I recall when I was younger and spared the fallen by walking on the side of the road instead. In my haze of petulant ignorance and disregard for the world as it was then, I realise now that I was, in some way, attempting to preserve their beauty, to prevent myself from ruining such a fine thing. Jacarandas are such fine trees. They mark the imminence of summer, and the final echo of winter dies with the blossoming of an infinite amount of delicate, lilac, purple flowers. Those lopsided bell shapes that I have come to love, their impossibly short lives, their unique perfume. I remember collecting some on my way home from school as a little child, clutching them in between my little fingers. My fingers are not so little now; perhaps I could hold more now, if I left to pick some up. I carried them home in the warm grip of my hand, and I put them in the dish holding water for a pot plant I owned. I placed the pot plant on the windowsill. I adored the little jacaranda bells.
Maybe it was a few days, less than a week before the jacaranda bells began to wilt. The smell of flowery death permeated the room, engulfing me. In my haste to dispose of the dying heads, I had forgotten the little brilliant beauties they once were. It is a moment of my life I cannot care to reflect upon on a day to day basis, but when I do, I think about how symbolic that is, symbolic of my identity, of who I am. Somehow that makes me fear me even more. I admire beauty in its young form, in the form it is most beautiful, trapped in the idea of its false immortality, only to fall bitterly disappointed as a victim to reality, the possibility, inevitability of death. I did not hold onto them even in their dying moments. Perhaps I am overthinking it, people throw out dead flowers all the time, that does not mean they are bad people. I don’t know. I’m not sure. The way I cast them aside so readily in its final moments…but for now, I sit comfortably alone, admiring little purple bells that have not yet detached from the twigs that hold them high up in the tree.
I wrote this while I was waiting for you to come, honey. Hope you like it.