I remember.

My childhood smelled like Jasmine.

In the backyard hiding a wooden fence from view so I couldn't tell it was keeping the world out.

Little white flowers hidden in a plane of green leaf vines, shaped like the stars.

Jasmine.

How could I ever forget the smell of the California sun helping them to perfume the air, as I dreamed the sweet simple dreams of six, of castle walls opening onto nothing but green fields and there I would be happy.

Before I ever knew the sound of a moving van, the sight of the emptied house, the feel of the backseat on a long, long ride away from the place I called home, the taste of my own tears.

Jasmine.