Bradford Pear Nostalgia

I'm nostalgic for the Bradford pear, 
The invasive headache tree
Smells like fish and clogs the air, 
But it smells like home to me. 

What does that say, I wonder, 
About memory's sweetened touch? 
It's not 2010: it's not even summer, 
But I feel like it, so much. 

Bruises turn green over time, y'know,
And green is springtime when you squint. 
So you press both hands where bruises go,
And are confused by purple print. 

That's the secret, though, I think
When life goes too fast to care. 
It'll be awful sometimes, but you know what? 
You'll miss that Bradford pear. 

Wrote this a month ago and forgot to post it. I was walking home from my evening class, (which I always rushed home from) and stopped and thought “wait! I’m rushing through something I’m going to miss one day!” So I took off my shoes and walked home barefoot in the cool spring air. I got hit with the truly awful smell of the bradford pear, and this poem just followed right along with it.