The abundant patch under the purple lilac tree where I grew up, in the woods, with the witch. Daddy didn’t believe in witches, so there was no witch, but I knew there was a witch.

The constant, desperate searches as a child, thinking that the mutant four leaf clover held the power when really, it was the plentiful three leaves that triumphed. I didn’t know that then.

The sudden fear of the blackbirds as the lilac tree started to bud over the clovers. They can smell you, she had told me. Even through glass. I imagined the blackbirds, shattering the window trying to get to me.

Outside, I sifted through the leaves of three. She had wanted one; a four leaf clover. For what, she wouldn’t tell me. And I, as fearful as I was of the blackbirds, kept darting my eyes from the patch to the sky, watching for the all-smelling fowl.

Inside, I shifted in my seat as he interrogated me. What are you afraid of? And I didn’t want to tell him, because I was suddenly and painfully aware that there never were four leaf clovers and even if there were, it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t see her again.

The sweet flower bloomed in the patch, and I chewed at the nectar, still wary of the sky. That’s simply not true, he had said. Don’t believe everything you hear. And then, to my elation, I found four leaves. A trembling hope built up in my chest as I brought it closer. A wave of disenchantment threatened to drown me as I discovered the truth;

A knot, holding two stems together at the center.

A warm breeze carried the scent of the lilacs by the time I realized for certain that she was gone. Guilt and relief flooded through me as I picked at the three leaf clover I’d chosen. I held it up to the sky, and I felt safe.