We spent the cool morning moments chatting on the immeasurable quality of the night bloomers.
Awash in the scents of heady locust bean blossoms and lilting honeysuckle.
He pondered on the magic that makes these ephemera uncatchable to my folks' chemistry.
Oh sure we humans can simulate these ghost scents. But true Mock Orange is like a sugar spun treat on the tongue. Filling the lungs and bring ecstacy then forever gone on the exhalation.
Jasmine becomes a lead bludgeon in our hands that beats the faculties to numbness in a cloud around each crisply dressed elder woman.
Synthetic Gardenia is a razor that slices deeply into the sinuses and carves its initials into your thoughts.
Our synthetic renderings can mimic the top notes sure. But they fall cloying and heavy upon the pallette; linger like yesterday's fish fry; and induce not bliss but skull splitting rebuke.
So instead of debate his point of view , which I find all too correct to rebut. I sat with him and just breathed in my favorite memories: part morning mist, part locust bean bloom, part honeysuckle, and part quiet company.
