One Flame for Home

Starring Dr, Jennifer Hazel

Dr. Jennifer Hazel uses the golden flame in her brass lantern locket to comfort patients at the hospital, even as its light dwindles. After she gives the last spark to Mr. Fenwick, she returns home empty and finds Pop Hazel asleep with cold tea on the porch swing. Remembering his advice to save one flame for home, Jennifer strikes the single match in his red tin matchbox and warms the tea before waking him. Reunited on the swing, Jennifer learns that caring for others must include saving warmth and care for home, too.

The hospital parking lot smelled of damp asphalt and morning frost. Beneath her navy coat, Jennifer's brass lantern locket hummed with golden light. "Doctor, my knees ache something awful!" groaned Mr. Fenwick, waving his cane. Jennifer clicked the tiny glass door open and tipped its bright flame toward his cupped palms.

That evening, Pop Hazel rocked on the porch swing beside two mugs of chamomile tea, smelling of dried flowers and honey. He slid a red tin matchbox into her pocket. "Save one flame for home, Jenny," he said gently. Jennifer kissed his woolly collar, then rushed back toward her car.

In the ward, patients crowded the hallway with heavy sighs. Jennifer tended every bedside until the locket's spark shrank to a frail orange ember. "Sit down, Dr. Hazel," a nurse warned, steadying a tray. "Just one more," Jennifer answered, pressing two fingers against her temples.

By her car, Mr. Fenwick stepped from the shadows, still grumbling about the chilly breeze. Jennifer blew the locket's very last spark into his coat pocket. The brass miniature clicked shut, cold as stone. When she drove home, Pop Hazel was asleep on the swing, his mug stone-cold.

Jennifer sat down hard on the chilly porch step. She unlatched the dark locket. Her own pale reflection looked back in the cold glass, blank and empty. The yard was still. No one called her name, and her hands had nothing left to give.

Her fingers brushed the red tin matchbox in her pocket. She pulled it out and slid the lid back. One wooden match lay on the rough cardboard lining. Pop's words returned to the quiet porch: "Save one flame for home, Jenny." Jennifer stopped looking down the dark driveway.

Jennifer struck the match along the wooden rail. With a sharp rasp and a burst of sulfur, a bright yellow flame flared to life. She cupped it close, warming the cold chamomile tea between her palms. "Pop," she whispered, nudging his knee. "I brought the flame back."

Pop Hazel patted the wooden slat beside him. "Right on time, Jenny," he said, sipping the warm chamomile. Jennifer sat on the swing, rested her forehead against his scratchy olive cardigan, and let the tea's sweet steam warm her face.