Right after I turned seven, we moved into a one bedroom house in Denver. It had a small basement where my brother and I slept. Across the entire backyard of the property was a row of lilacs bushes, and in one corner was a huge old lilac bush that was hollowed out in the center.
Lilacs only bloom in springtime, and maybe so does young love. It was inside that hollowed out bush that I kissed my first girl, snuck my first cigarette, hid from bullies, and hid from my mom when she was looking for me with a switch in her hand.
The little house still stands, and I look at it almost reverently. The lilacs are long gone now, replaced by chain-link fencing, but to this day I adore the aroma of lilacs.