Spider Lilies at Dusk

One beer wasn’t enough tonight. Nor were the two after. Ken could walk those off. No, tonight called for whiskey.

The town was already quiet when he left the bar. Most people were home eating dinner with family.

Family.

A familiar knot tightened in his chest. The cool September breeze and the whiskey dulled the edges, but not enough.

He stumbled down the street, cutting through a park as he hummed an old tune.

He took in the surroundings. It had changed since he was a kid. Bigger now, benches and trees lined the path. On one bench sat a woman. She was older, grayed hair pulled back into a bun. Something about her felt out of place. Before he could think better of it, his feet moved toward her, the crunch of gravel cutting through the stillness.

“Everything alright, ma’am? You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m waiting for my son. You’re welcome to sit,” she motioned to the space next to her.

Something in his chest shifted—old, automatic, unwanted. He pushed it down again. He couldn’t leave this lady by herself. And he really didn’t want to go to his father’s house right now. Ken scratched the back of his head and sat on the bench. “I guess I can stay a bit.”

They fell into easy conversation about Ken’s job, the storm a month back, the endless construction backing up traffic. After a while Ken glanced around.

“Your son is pretty late.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind waiting. He will come eventually.”

The unease crept back in, heavier now. He clasped his hands and leaned forward, staring at the tree across the path. The leaves burned orange in patches, the bark peeled in strips. A squirrel scurried up it.

“This used to be a road. Maybe you remember.” He gestured to the wide path in front of them. “About forty years ago, a car veered off. It hit her.”

He clenched his hands. “If I had been on time, she would’ve been okay.” He took a shuddering breath. His knee bounced, fast and restless. “She must’ve been so mad. Waiting.”

The bench was cool against his back as he straightened. “I never did come back to this park. Not till today.”

The woman’s smile softened. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s hard losing someone, especially like that.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a wrapped butterscotch candy. “Here.”

She held the candy out to him.

He stared at it for a beat. Then, slowly took it with a muttered thanks. The plastic wrapper crinkled as he opened it, popping the candy into his mouth. The sweetness lingered, smoother than he expected.

“She was a good mom. She always kept candies in her bag like that. Said they chased tears away.” The candy clacked against his teeth.

The woman hummed. “And was she right?”

Ken let out a soft, airy laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, she was.” He ran his hand down his face and looked at his watch. His brow furrowed as he took in the blurry numbers. It was late.

The woman noticed. “Got someplace to be?” she asked.

The wind rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees. Ken picked at the rough denim of his jeans. Finally he answered, “I do. But it can wait.”

She watched him for a minute. Ken’s knee was bobbing up and down, thumb tapping erratically. Gaze focused on the ground in front of him. She pulled out another candy and held it out to him. “For courage.”

The candy’s yellow wrapper crinkled as his fingers closed around it. It brought his focus back. He opened his mouth to say something when a voice cut in.

“There he is.” The woman gave Ken a wink, “Better late than never.” She stood up, smoothing down the front of her long skirt. “You take care now. Don’t sit out here too long.”

“Have a good evening, ma’am. Thanks for listening. And the candy.”

She smiled and gave a small wave. “It was a pleasure. Thank you for the company.”

A flash of red caught the corner of his eye. Next to the bench was a spider lily. Without thinking he reached out, fingers brushing against the delicate petals. His face softened a fraction, the tension in his shoulders loosened.

When he looked back up the woman was gone.

With a sigh he pushed himself up off the bench and made his way to his father’s home. His steps were more steady than they had been when he left the bar.

When he finally made it, he dug the keys out of his pocket, hesitating as he brought them to the lock. He took a deep breath, turned the key with a click and pushed open the door.

It was quiet.

Ken’s father died a few years back. As the only child, he was tasked with sorting through his father’s belongings and boxing them up.

He never did.

Boxes scattered the living room, only half full, things thrown in haphazardly. Ken grabbed an empty one and went to his father’s study. His father spent most of his time there, and it was the room Ken avoided since his death. He paused in the doorway. Streetlight filtered through the window, illuminating the dust dancing in the air. The room still smelled like him—tobacco and old spice.

His feet were cemented to the ground.

Move. Just walk in.

He put the box down and turned to leave. When he stuck his hands in his pockets a sound of crinkly plastic caught his attention. It was the candy from the woman at the park. He pulled it out and rolled it between his fingers.

“For courage,” he repeated. He popped the candy into his mouth, the taste of butterscotch returning. He squared his shoulders and turned back to the room.

One by one he filled the boxes. Books first, then the knickknacks. Soon four boxes sat at his feet. He gave a small nod and turned toward the desk.

The desk had several framed pictures decorating it. He picked one up, brushing off the dust. It was his mother, wearing a white and blue sundress. She looked so young. But that’s not what made his breath hitch.

In the photo his mother was crouched in a field of spider lilies. Just like the one from earlier.

Trembling fingers traced the glass.

“I made it, mom.”