Another Memory With Hydrangea

Until my freshman year of high school we lived in a house with a lovely back yard, two young dogwoods manning the stairway into the bottom tier of the property, and I'd often just sit in the middle of it all and stare at the large hydrangea bush above the stone wall my father'd built into the hillside. At times I'd shove my face into the pillowy blooms and wiggle my head around, eyes closed, because it was so soft and smelled so good. I never found a reason to pluck the white flowerheads from their bushy stems.