The Scent of Jasmine

I didn’t know that day, that day I saw the Jasmine tree.

I wasn’t looking for plants and flowers for my garden, but it drew me in. It spoke to me.

I approached the tall tree, and my senses exploded. I leaned down to draw near to its white petals and hot pink buds and was overtaken by its sweet aroma. Its radiating perfume, its fragrance transported me back to my life in North Africa. Memories, thoughts, snapshots flooded me.

Jasmine—one of my favorites.

I didn’t know that day, that day I saw the Jasmine tree.

I couldn’t resist and placed the delicate, floral creation in my shopping cart. I had to find the perfect place for it in my butterfly garden, the place I called home everyday, the place I would often sit and write.

That night, I spoke at an event. I told Habiba’s story. I once again stepped into her dark burgundy babouches and shared her journey from Morocco, to the strawberry fields of Spain, to the brothel, to the safe house, and to a life of abundance and freedom.

I had told that story a hundred times. I could tell it in my sleep. I often did.

That night, however, it was different. At the end of my story, my call to action surprised me. My own words took me aback.

“Don’t forget Habiba! Don’t forget Habiba!”

It was strange and caught me off guard. It was a sort of pleading, begging to those who listened, those who watched. 

“Don’t forget Habiba! Don’t forget Habiba!”

What was the origin of this strong beckoning? From where did it come?

That night, the words I penned in ink on the dedication page of Habiba’s books, Habiba’s stories were also strange.

“Don’t forget Habiba! Don’t forget Habiba!”

I stayed up late that night, woke early the next morning.

I didn’t know that day, that day I saw the Jasmine tree.

The early morning call, the message were piercing.

“Habiba passed away.”

The words didn’t register. I didn’t understand.

“What?”

It felt surreal. My heart and brain were in shock. Nothing made sense.

The reality, the truth settled. It impregnated every deep place of my muscles, my bones. Deep grief took over.

The Jasmine tree sat in my courtyard for several weeks, held by a broken pot that I had picked up from the dumpster at the end of my street.

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

That cracked piece of pottery seemed perfect for my Jasmine tree. I had already named it, “Habiba’s Tree.”

Rain, wind, and hail battered “Habiba’s Tree” over the course of the next few weeks. That frail Jasmine tree sadly could not withstand the storms of life.

Just like Habiba, “Habiba’s Tree” died.

As I walked down the street to take my dried up, shriveled “Habiba’s Tree” to the dumpster, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the scent, the fragrance of sweet Jasmine wafting in the air. Then, I saw them—endless, boundless bouquets of white Jasmine flowers blooming, growing, extending through my neighbor’s gate onto the streets.

I walked by, admired their beauty, leaned over, and took a deep breath.

I remembered how Habiba always wanted to stop and smell the flowers, wherever we went. She always noticed, took time, never in a hurry.

There it was, there she was, spilling out onto the streets.

Jasmine. Habiba. Everywhere.

For me to enjoy, for the world to enjoy.

Nothing could stop her. No, not even death.

Habiba’s life, Habiba’s story, Habiba’s fragrance live on . . . eternally.

Sometimes, someone, something must die to bring new life.

Let that be for Habiba—Habiba’s Tree, Habiba’s life, Habiba’s story.

I didn’t know that day, that day I saw the Jasmine tree.