The Jasmine Tree

Between me and the jasmine tree lies infinite years of pondering, laughs, eleventh hours, and childhood innocence. The place under the jasmine tree that veiled most of my grandfather's front yard was my sanctuary. Under the jasmine tree, I crawled as a toddler. I would lift my head and stare in awe at its huge umbrella-like shape. I would gasp in wonder when the breeze teased its branches, and it showered me with sweet-smiling jasmine flowers. Under the jasmine tree, I turned eight, and I held the end of my grandmother's apron while her weathered hands made jasmine necklaces with patience. Under the jasmine tree, I tiptoed to my fifteenth year. I buried my face between the pages of pride and prejudice for the first time, and I used the fragrant flowers as bookmarks. Under the jasmine tree, I sipped minty cups of tea as a twenty-year-old and chatted with my grandparents about life.

I am half way around the world now. Sometimes a jasmine smell will catch me in the most unexpected moments; while I am walking to my car from work, or when I am standing in the balcony at night. When the sweet smell engulfs me, time shifts, and I find myself standing beneath the tree watching light filters through the delicate petals of jasmine.