The neighborhoods of Orange County smell like the flowers of my childhood. 

Those alluring purple flowers my mother warned me not to pick because their scent would stain my hands and she could not bear it. We used to spend our childhood summer days by the pool in our old apartment complex on Lexington. The gated pool area was lined with these purple flowers, and I would ride my tricycle around them, keeping one hand on the handlebars while letting my other graze the skinny stems as I rode past them. It was freeing; I was letting go while still being in control. 

Sometimes, my sister and I would pick handfuls of these flowers and turn them into bouquets. One day, I came back into the apartment to hand my mom a bouquet I had made just for her. She panicked, grabbed my wrist, and led me to the bathroom. “You can’t pick those,” she would say. She made me smell my own hands. “What does that smell like to you?” I thought for a second. “Dog pee,” she interjected. I just thought they were pretty. 

The “dog pee” flowers could not keep me away long—why would they plant such pretty flowers with such an odorous smell? My mom will say I was just stubborn, but she was the one who gave me the eye for such pretty things. I continued to pick them and hide the scent from her. 

As I’m driving through the manicured neighborhoods, catching glimpses of the sun’s prettiest hour over the hillside, I roll all four car windows down to let the breeze alleviate the suffocating heat of my non-air-conditioned car. It’s moments like these that make you grateful to be alive, as cliche as that sounds, but true nonetheless. I grew up in Southern California, and I’m lucky that a part of me will always call it home. 

The same purple flowers lined nearly every street I drove down. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, I let my other hang out the window, breathing in the sweet scent of my childhood.