I like making lists. I like drinking with people, but I dislike being drunk. I like things I find in lost-in-found, thrift shops, and old vests my mother brings me from her youth. And I like that, too. Youth. I like the lingering scent of mine, when I think about it. Hot summer days trigger that sensation. Cigarette smoke, (maybe clove cigarettes, as well) Egyptian goddess oil mixed with sweat, cheap car fresheners, pumpkin lattes, and tanning lotion.

I like the taste and smell of cigarettes, but I no longer like smoking. I like walking, but I hate rushing to work and school. I like the museum during the week, when few people are around, so that I may stand in the middle of Italian Renaissance painters and pretend that I am an art critic. I like summer rain. I like the way the cold droplets sizzle on my sun burnt skin. And I like that, sometimes, a rainbow will follow.

I like candles, but I dislike how snobby people can be about them. Grocery store candles smell just as nice, if you pick out the right flavors. Flavors…I like ice cream, but I hate that it goes straight to my ass.

I love my family. I would easily give up my life for any one of them, if needed. I love the way they remind me of plant life. Our half acre of land holds a line of pine trees, a blueberry bush, an herb garden, a peony bush, a maple, tons of flowers trailing our perimeter, and three of the most important local flora I have come to cherish deeply. My father is the pussy willow tree back, behind the house. It has been there forever. No matter the weather, it stands, unscathed, always, the soft buds, delicate as his emotions. The aged bark, rough like his over-worked and under-paid hands. I love how when I was a little girl, he would come into my room before leaving for work and kiss my forehead, tracing a film of aftershave on my face. It made me feel safe.

I would get up and go sleep with my mum, until she woke up. Their bed was so big and again, it made me feel safe. I loved my mother’s long eyelashes and would poke at them until she gave in and made me French toast. She is her favorite flower, the columbine in the flower garden, and smells like cotton. Bearing flexible petals, rarely appreciated for her true beauty, and unconditionally loving, she is able to be around almost anyone. I love how when I was once at the ER, I could smell her as soon as she came rushing through the doors to find me. I said to the EMT’s, “My mother is here.”

Andrea, my sister, is the bleeding heart bush in front of the house. Honest and real, but fragile and hurting, closed-off from outsiders. She smells like cigarettes and expensive perfume. I love that when I hug her, we bond, even though she hates being touched. But I feel like sobbing, because I know we will never be as close as I’d like to be. Just as I could never afford really expensive perfume, I could never afford to build a place in her heart.

I like sweet memories, but I dislike that most of them fade from mind. And I love making new memories, but I don’t love that I know I may not have the chance to make another one tomorrow.

A friend of mine who passed away almost exactly four years ago, made gifts of things to remind us of her, since she knew she was going to die. At the funeral, her girlfriend gave me a little bag and inside, among a compact disc of classical music, her famous waffle recipe, and a few other things, Vaal enclosed a package of tree seeds with a quote by Minnie Aumonier that reads: “There is always music amongst the trees in the garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it.”

One day, after I have slaved and splintered myself a cabin, I will plant those little seeds and hope that my children find solace in my leaves.