Sugared Lavender
A fresh coat of paint and new carpet conceal its age.
A duplex on a quiet, if cluttered, Georgia street.
The two small boys learn to ride their bicycles with no training wheels
Using the gentle slope of the cul-de-sac.
Inside, the furniture is meager and thrifted.
A black wooden box supporting a small TV.
An old, brown couch—a sectional missing its partner.
Mattresses on plain metal frames for a man and two small boys.
In the kitchen, there is a candle.
The man lights the candle.
It emits a warm, pleasant scent.
Sugared Lavender.
He cooks cornbread and spaghetti with no meatballs.
They eat.
They play outside.
They laugh until the boys fall asleep.
Then the boys go away.
Only for a few days.
The man pretends they are merely invisible.
Finally they reappear.
The world is sick.
The school buses deliver food.
The man is grateful, and eats all the leftovers
Except the pile of 100 raisin boxes.
He checks his email in the laundromat.
His phone makes calls and texts, but that is all.
He reads, and thinks.
He is all alone; everything has fallen away.
He inhales the sugared lavender.
He closes his eyes and smiles.
As the candle burns in the engulfing black,
It creates light, and hope, and home.
All is well.
All will be well.
The sun goes away and the man blows out the candle.
He will light it again tomorrow.
Written September 6, 2026
(Photo illustration by Marija Zaric on Unsplash)
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