The scent of hyacinths always reminds me of my mother. Every March, green shoots would pierce the cold soil of my childhood home. Stout panicles of soft pink, creamy white, and sky blue unfurled, releasing an intoxicatingly sweet scent. They officially announced spring in the suburbs, promising light and warmth after a dreary New York winter.

In Greek mythology, the hyacinth flower symbolizes mourning and rebirth. According to one version of the myth, the god Apollo accidentally killed his lover Hyacinthus with a heavy bronze discus. Overcome with grief, Apollo created the hyacinth flower from his lover’s spilled blood. The Hyacinthia became an annual Spartan festival held in his honor.

Every year in the early New York spring, my dad would grab his pruners and dash out of the house to clip a few hyacinth flower stalks. More of a gardener than a florist, he would bring them inside and haphazardly arrange them in an ill-fitting vase and then position them on our dining room table. Their light and sugary scent would then permeate the whole house, smelling like cotton candy rain clouds in springtime.

But not for long. “Robert! Get those damn flowers out of the house! You know I can’t take that smell!” my mother would yell to my dad from across the house as soon as she detected their presence. Then she would predictably cough while dramatically clutching her chest and running to remove the wretched flowers. Her allergies, or her asthma, or her autoimmune disorder was or were activated again, and she couldn’t breathe. “Calm down Suzie, they’re just flowers!” my dad would yell back as she shoved the damn flowers into his hands. Opening the backyard door, he would begrudgingly dispose of the flowers. Then he would proceed to sulk in the backyard by himself for half an hour, while smoking a cigarette.

During all this commotion, it was me and my sisters’ job to rush in and open all the windows. Some windows were difficult to unhinge after being closed all winter, but us three little girls managed. The cool spring air — now mixed with a tinge of cigarette smoke — billowed in, and the heavenly scent of the hyacinths quickly faded.

For my wedding flowers, I did not want hyacinths. Instead, I chose coral-colored orchids, tropical anthurium, and oriental white lilies for my Florida beach wedding. My now husband once bought me three giant bouquets of beautiful white lilies while we were dating, and my apartment was filled with their rich scent for a week straight.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like growing up if my dad had brought my mom flowers that she enjoyed smelling. Other times, I wonder what it would have been like if my mom could have graciously accepted the hyacinths that my dad lovingly grew with his bare hands. But mostly, I’m just glad that they never accidentally murdered each other with a bronze discus.

Since moving to Florida, I have only occasionally found hyacinths for sale. After drinking in their intoxicating scent, I push them aside and buy a bunch of lovely white lilies instead.

love, Lexy