Last August

“I don’t know. What are berry bugs?”
“Have you been bitten under the elastic?” Dad’s friend asked.
Eyes widening, I nodded.
“And in the creases? Oh, they get you in the creases and under the elastic the berry bugs.”
“What are they?!” My brow furrowed.
“Nobody knows… They really itch. They burrow under your skin.”
“Oh no! Am I supposed to be doing anything about this?”
“It’s fine. They’ll stop itching in a couple of days.” My Dad’s friend had said.

I’d trampled over weeds to reach awkward corners of the garden. I’d strimmed couch grass down to its meaty middle. I’d trimmed back hedges. Dad refused to hire a gardener. We’d sampled our first brambles of the year.

“That honeysuckle’s a nice smell isn’t it?” Dad ate another bramble.

I watched through the tangle of brambles and rosehips as my Dad steadied himself with his stick. Shiny redcurrants and tiny pink Herb-Robert flowers distracted my eye. Unnecessarily tall nettles leant against rowan, spruce and fir once planted as cuttings intended for bonsai. That December I would chop down the fir, bring the top three feet inside, and decorate the tree with holly, rosehips, copper wire hearts, and a string of lights. I would give Dad a honeysuckle-scented candle. He would be unaware that I’d chosen it because it reminded me of that day last August.

“Which one is it?” I asked of the wild patch between us. Dad gestured to one of the extravagant flowers with a reassuring tap of his hand. Moss-cushioned underfoot, I moved closer. I smelled honeysuckle knowingly for the first time as he said, “It’s really sweet, a sort of an intense sweetness to it.”