Nasturtiums.

Savoring simple daily pleasures

It started with a scent.

That faint, peppery sweetness drifting through the open window. I paused mid-step, my hands still damp from rinsing dishes, and turned toward the breeze. Nasturtiums. The garish little trumpets that never failed to pull me back in time.

Suddenly, I was no longer in my kitchen but barefoot in the garden of my childhood home. The summer air was thick with the hum of bees and the far-off bark of dogs. I could almost hear the metallic whine of a mower, the kind that groaned under the weight of long grass. And the unmistakable hiss of hot air balloons drifting over our city—their shadows momentarily cooling our sun-warmed skin as we craned our necks from the gardens.

Those were the golden hours. When daylight stretched far beyond bedtime, and sleep came only after sticky nectarine fingers, impromptu backyard games with the children next door ,and the gentle murmur of neighbourhood barbecues that mingled with the scent of charcoal and citronella. We’d fall asleep to the whisper of sprinklers and the fading laughter of grown-ups sipping wine under fairy lights.

It’s strange, I thought, how something so small—a flower, a scent—could carry the weight of a thousand memories.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. In the last house we lived in—a neat little place with terraced soil and perfect sun—I’d tried everything to coax nasturtiums to life. Planted them lovingly, whispered to the seeds, watered just enough. They never took. Not once.

And now, here at this new place, after another brutal winter and the flood that had forever changed the back of the property, they’d sprung up like wildfire. Tangled ropes of green winding around the silt-covered decking, trailing into the stream that had carved itself a new course. Dotted everywhere—like sparks caught in a net—were those impossible, vibrant bursts of orange.

At first, I yanked at them with frustration. They’d invaded everything—smothering what little order remained. But as the hours passed, my tugging slowed. Each vine seemed to plead a little. Remember us? they said. We were joy once.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to toss them all away.

So I set aside a few. Just a small posy, carefully chosen. Five or six blooms with their wild, spiralling stems. I found a bud vase—one of my mother’s, I think—and filled it with fresh water. Their heads nodded over the rim like children peeking over a fence.

That night, with the stars twinkling through our open curtains and the scent of line-dried linen clinging to my sheets, I slipped into bed.

The little vase on my nightstand glowed softly in the dim light, a defiant splash of orange against the muted tones of the room. And as I closed my eyes, the decades peeled back.

There I was again: barefoot, carefree, sun-warmed, and surrounded by laughter.

And for the first time in a long while, I slept deeply—held in the gentle arms of memory, rocked by the scent of nasturtiums.