Photograph Developed in Sugar

I remember the summer the lights went out —

or maybe it was the fireflies that came early,

blinking their small Morse code of wonder

while Mom said, "camping in the backyard, isn’t this fun?"

Maybe it wasn’t July, maybe it was just hot

because the air conditioner sighed itself to death.

Maybe the stars looked brighter

because there was nothing else shining that night.

She lit candles like constellations,

told stories about when she was my age —

how the dark made her brave,

how marshmallows tasted better when they melted slow.

I think I remember laughing.

I think I remember thinking

we were lucky to have this.

Or maybe I just gathered what I could —

the sound of her voice soft against the hum of crickets,

the glow of wax on her cheekbones,

the lie we made into a lullaby,

and I’ve kept it ever since —

like a photograph developed in sugar,

edges blurring where the truth tried to burn through.

Sometimes I hold it up to the light

and can’t tell if it’s warm or just flickering.