The world is full of ghosts.

Some peep out from mirrors, some whisper behind doors. Some, the kind ones, dance with the molecules in the air.

My grandfather is woodbine at dusk. I breathe the fragrance  of summer five decades past and he is with me, holding my small hand in the safe grasp of his own.

He has teased rampant honeysuckle into a fairy bower, sun dappled and heady. Inside, the earth is blossom slick, staining my skin with vanilla, lemon, and musk. I curl up in my cocoon.

“Look Gramps – I’m a caterpillar!”

He chuckles. “You will be an incredibly beautiful butterfly. Or perhaps a moth.”

“Urgh. I don’t like moths. They’re ugly.” And scary but that’s a secret. “Ugly and stupid. They fry.”

“Sometimes. But they are just going to the moon. They make honeysuckle, moths do.”

“Not bees?”

“Moths.”

I am enchanted. Perhaps moths aren’t scary. Perhaps they just got lost.

The leaves whisper as I peep out at my grandfather telling tales of honeysuckle lore. How it guards against evil, twists bridles for ponies, binds love eternal and belongs to the evening star. I drift off as he murmurs, maybe to himself “You have to take care, mind. Tame it. Be ruthless.”

My grandfather is woodbine at dusk. Time is of the essence and so is love.