I was a little girl of ten or twelve when I first saw these purple flowers by the roadside. The bush grew beside a gutter in front of a friend’s home.
It was the colour, that vibrant purple, that stained my mind like a smear that couldn’t be washed away. I was mesmerised. Then came fascination: a long green stem with a tiny cluster of flowers clinging to it. I always wondered—why so few? Had the others fallen away, or is this simply how these flowers are?
To find an answer, I would sweep my gaze across the bush. Leaf to leaf, stem to stem, twig to twig. They were all the same. A small bouquet of bright purple blossoms on a long, vibrant green spike.
I never learned the name of these flowers. At one point, I even wondered, in my child’s mind—Could they be lavender? But I’d never seen a real lavender bush, only pictures. And if they were lavender, they should have a scent, shouldn’t they?
But I never got close enough to know. I only glimpsed them when the school van stopped outside that house. I never asked my friend to pick one. Even as a child, I lived by a strange, whispering law that told me plucking flowers was an unforgivable crime.
Years passed. I left school. Life bloomed with other priorities, and the memory of those pretty purple flowers faded beneath them.
Then one morning, in our own garden, a nameless bush appeared, blessed with a familiar bloom.
Suddenly, a box full of memories sprang open.
My joy knew no bounds. I scampered over and gazed at it for a long while. Then, remembering my childhood curiosity, I inhaled the flowers only to find they bore no scent. It was a slight disappointment, perhaps, but the kind that made me smile.
I examined every part of the bush in wonder, grateful for its unexpected appearance in our garden.
Now, as an adult, I know her name. Blue Porterweed—a wildflower that feeds butterflies and bees, calling pollinators with her radiant charm. She is unscented, yes, but bright enough to entice Blue Tiger butterflies that often drift among the greenery.
Still, she fascinates me. She is my memory bridge.
I cross that bridge to the past every time I see her smiling by the gate. If only for a little while.