Referred to by some people as “Kentucky’s least wanted plant,” Bush Honeysuckle is my Time Machine. One whiff of the fragrant petals, and it’s 1980. I’m ten-years-old again, riding my purple bike down Morris Hill. Plastic streamers, from my bike’s handlebar grips, tickle my wrists, and my heavy ponytail bounces between my shoulder blades.

It’s spring in Eastern Kentucky, and the hilly streets in my childhood neighborhood unfold before me like a treasure map. I park my bike and visit Mrs. Sampsill, a retired teacher who has a koi pond in her backyard. The two of us feed the fish and laugh as they open their mouths in perfect little Os.

I wave goodbye as I pedal down her driveway and veer to the right. The elementary school playground is empty on this particular morning, and I have to stand on the pedals to make it up the hill. The coast down on the other side is worth it. I screech to a stop in front of the swing set. My white canvas Keds stir the dusty rut beneath the swing as a run forward. Then I lift my feet and fly back, tilting my head toward the sun.

My last stop is Mrs. Turner’s Store, which sits catty-corner from my own front yard. We have a charge account there. Mrs. Turner keeps all the carbon-copy charge account booklets in a shoebox. There’s one for every family who shops with her. She carefully writes down my purchases, using a blue pen with no lid. The pen leaks a little on her fingers: 1 grape Nehi soda, 1 pickled bologna. She doesn’t charge me for the half-sleeve of saltine crackers. I eat my snack on the crumbling stairs in front of her store. Her dogs, a collie with matted fur and an ancient German shepherd, are asleep on the sun-warmed concrete porch.

Honeysuckle vines tangle and tumble over the peeling slats of the wooden fence that borders her house next door to the store. I prop my elbows on the step behind me, close my eyes, and breathe in deep…the perfume of my childhood springtime.

Yes…honeysuckle is invasive, in more ways than one.