(Toledo, OH) We have a pair of lilac bushes that have grown over the years into full-fledged trees. In the springtime the purple lilac flowers fill the air around our house with a sweet aroma that lasts for a few weeks.
In winter, though, the twisted lilac trunks and branches stand like silent wraiths, almost glaring at you with a hint of menace, as if they might reach out and grab you if you got too close to them.
In the daylight of December these trees are less threatening, more like seeing a Halloween mask in the store, or walking through a graveyard on a Sunday afternoon.
But after dusk the gnarled lilacs can take on the shapes of whatever demons come to your mind, branches creaking in the night chill, straining to hook a limb under your neck, or bending forward to slash your face.
The intertwined trunks of the lilacs grate against each other and make sounds not unlike those of creaking doors, or the planks of an old oak floor as persons unknown walk above you.
Run along and do not dither beneath the lilac trees, friend. Their patience has worn thin in the icy cold, the charm of their springtime blossoms has long since withered away, and that which lurks within the lilacs is about to break free.