PINK

The Phlox Subulata bloomed, vigorously creeping, creating a carpet of cerise, coral, and cyclamen, perfumed by a concoction of herbs, floral citrus notes underpinned with sulphur. I had chosen pink moss for its hardiness, for its colour, for my dad. It had been one of his favourites.
I got thinking about my dad watching the recent Pink Moon, April 7th, as it travelled across the heavens, a golden sphere on the horizon then fading to a bright white light. I find that pink makes me nostalgic, learning me down the cobblestone path of memories, where I could embrace my inner child.
Dad died fifteen years ago to the day: during a Waning Crescent Moon — this special time when the moon is almost in line with the Earth and Sun — a time for relaxing, surrendering, for letting fate take the lead. I did not follow the stars, scribing my grief, then burning it to release me.
So here I stood, looking over this pinkness, planted in remembrance of my dad, feeling overwhelmed by unresolved feelings.
A couple of butterflies flitted around the petals, and my mind watched and wandered, wondering along their flight pathways.
Two black sedans pulled into my drive, attracting my attention by their spiralling red, blue, and white lights.
I turned from the phlox, walking spiritedly down the cobblestone walkway, towards the two women and two men striding toward me.
“Are you Andrea Watson?” The youngest looking woman huskily asked, her olive-green eyes tracking my movement.
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“We need to speak with you in private.” The barrel-chested male motioned towards my front door.
My breath shallowed.
Today, I came to a realization that butterflies aren’t the only creatures attracted to this perennial: police are too.
Seems phlox smells particularly like pot.