A work in progress

Outside my door is a vine that smells like the honeysuckle that my parents used to have. The four-petal white flower emits a sweet, cloying, almost overpowering scent. It seems to have bloomed overnight, one day nothing and the next an oppressive sweetness permeates the air. The scent presses down on me reminding me of the inexorable passage of time, spring to summer which gives way to fall and fades into winter. The relentless reek is almost too much to bear.