Lilac tree

By: Toni-Lee Hazlett

We had a lilac tree outside our home on 42 Ogden Avenue in Red Deer. I called her 'Lilac,' and as a child, I would sit beside her on the porch with my Dad, eating a bowl of buttery popcorn as we waited for the arrival of Mother Nature's first Spring Storm. Back then, having a direct experience with thunder and lightning was more thrilling than The Dukes of Hazzard. I would anxiously grab my blanket and wrap myself cocoon-like on the porch beside Dad. The air would fill with the scent of ozone, smoke from Dad's cigarette, and the fragrance of lilacs—to me, this was heaven.

As nature's show began, we would gleefully oooh and ahhh for what seemed like hours, hypnotized by the brilliant white lightning and the electrifying cracks of thunder. We'd imagined the lilac tree dancing and playing in the wind with the other trees on the street. It always seemed that the Lilac tree loved to be near us, witnessing the innocence of family bonds. Feeling she treasured our little family, being near her was a time for loving each other. She was a home for the peace and warmth we shared.

Time expanded beyond the popcorn, blankets, and the safety I felt beside my Dad and the Lilac tree. Saying goodbye to the magic of lilac blooms, I grew up and moved away from the duplex on the corner. Mom and Dad divorced, abandoning my childhood home along with the guardian of our memories to a new family. Dad left us, choosing life far from the dancing trees and Lilac's peace.

Wandering amongst the concrete jungles of addiction, his brain became a sponge for alcohol, warping his reality towards shame and misery. For years, he hid his booze brain injury; the doctor later told me he had a condition called Cerebella Ataxia. This created hell within the walls of his tiny 450-square-foot apartment and unleashed weeds of chaos in his mind. Saturated with cigarette smoke, he continued to surround himself in a decaying cloud of toxic misery and shame; alone, he maddingly pushed everyone away, including his lilac tree little girl. As loved ones of addicts, we face a choice: we can either join in your struggle or remain on the sidelines, loving you from a distance while witnessing the hell you endure.

As the years unfolded, the smoke began to clear, and Dad courageously reached out to the daughter he had held dear. After everything that had happened, we were delighted to discover Lilac's scent was still in the air. Our friendship had been rekindled, and we began getting to know each other again.

But too much time and space had moved us away from the lilac tree of our family home. Over the decades, addiction had taken a significant toll on Dad's life, leaving lasting echoes of its impact. The tumor that developed on the side of his face was a stark reminder of the choices he made, a deeply unsettling reality that he and I confronted together as he walked the journey home.

Three years later, Dad's ashes lie in peaceful stillness amongst the woods beside my new home, a sanctuary of healing and cherished memories of our bond. Nestled beneath his very own lilac tree, far away from cigarette smoke, we once again have a space to reconnect amidst the fragrant purple blooms. The spirit of Lilac continues to stand as the guardian of our memories—a sweet symbol of peace, reflecting mesmerizing lightning storms and the essence of our shared journey beneath dancing trees.