There are a couple of trees up the street from where I live. Every spring they blossom with white flowers. In the fall, the leaves turn red. The colors of the seasons are eye-catching but what really gets me is the spring scent. The only fair comparison is it has to be what heaven smells like.

Whenever I take my springtime walks, I make sure to walk by this particular house. Slowly. In a slightly creepy way if you don’t realize what I’m doing. The spring bloom is a short window so I try to make as many passes as I can by this house.

A few years ago, someone was standing in the yard as I passed by. “What kind of trees are these?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” he grunted.

Thanks, Mr. Unhelpful. So, I enjoyed them without knowing their name. Every spring for about two or three weeks I walk by this house. Slowly. Imagining that if I died and walked through the pearly gates these particular trees would be in eternal spring bloom.

I told my coworkers about it. Trying to describe with actual words the trees. One suggested it might be a type of pear tree based on the flower. I googled it. That particular tree does have a famous scent. But it is compared to rotting fish and poopy diapers. Pretty sure the smell of my heaven would have nothing to do with fish.

I decided to let my iPhone tell me.

The good news, pictures of both trees yielded the same results.

I never noticed any fruit on them before but after the spring scent, I no longer walk on that side of the road. The colors are pretty but they are not pretty enough for me to cross the road for a closer look. So I have never looked at them closely outside the spring season.

The other night as I walked by there were people working in the yard. They were planting flowers and sprucing up the area.

I asked again. “What kind of trees are these?”

“Let me go ask,” the woman said. She stood up from the ground where she was busy working and ran to the neighbor’s house. I am guessing they are renters spending their first spring in the house. She came back with an answer, “Canadian Red Leaf Chokecherry Trees.”

I repeated it since the answer was nearly bigger than the tree.

“These are all starters,” her husband joined in. He pointed at a tiny forest growing around the trunk. “Do you want a starter?”

“Give her a couple of starters,” his wife said.

“Oh, no,” I declined. I would have loved to take a starter and have my very own scent of heaven but I have no where to plant it. At least, that’s the answer I should have given. Instead, what came out was a little too truthful to share with strangers, “I shouldn’t be entrusted with any living thing.”

“Oh,” the husband said either a little worried or disappointed that I wasn’t willing to take a starter.

“I will just have to walk by your place for a couple of weeks,” I shared my plan. Which was also a little too truthful.

“Oh,” the wife said.

I continued on my walk. As I neared home the irony of it hit me. My heaven is cherry scent? There are two things I refuse to eat. Fish and cherries. I just can’t stand the taste. Cherries are gross. Yet, I really like the smell of pre-cherries apparently.

I’m just glad my version of heaven does not actually smell like rotting fish.