Lavender by K. A. Laity

Old wine, new bottle…

Punk Noir Magazine

I smelled lavender again today. 

Nigel would bring me lavender from his walks across the fields, throw his arms around my shoulders and smother me in a hug. Lavender: the scent that meant his absence, his return. He would never come back now. Instead the lavender’s perfume arrived, bidding me remember, remember. 

I turned back to the dishes drying in the rack, but the mundane task held little appeal now. A breeze carried the aroma of the asters blooming outside the back door. On impulse, I dropped the towel and stepped out the back door. In a moment I was enveloped by the rich fragrance of the climbing honeysuckle and by the dazzling warmth of the midday sun. Its touch felt like the embrace of love.

I passed under the arch, where the white-spotted ivy twined, and limped over to my little herb garden. My mother always said…

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