The Jasmines

When I was a kid, my grandma usually told me to pick some blossom jasmines at the garden. She smelled the flowers so deep, and put them in her wardrobe until those jasmines were wilted. I used to keep the flowers for myself. I love to smell them too. When I picked five, I kept one of them, and my grandma never knew that. And sometimes, I just picked all the flowers for myself, and told my grandma that the flowers were not blossom yet. Now I’m growing up, and my grandma is getting old. She never told me to pick up the flowers again. But when I walking in the morning, I smell something’s familiar. It’s the jasmines. They still blossom every morning. They never look old, even though they’re growing. I picked one and put it in my pocket. It’s getting dry, but the smell is still linger in. Those jasmines never get bored with their scent. They love the way they are. Eventually, people love them. My grandma loves it. And I never give that flower to my grandma anymore. Those jasmines are turning into angel. Goodness in me. Motivates me.