Epiphany in diaspora

I live in a city of candles. At one end of Main Street, there’s a little jewel box of a shop that sells pure beeswax candles along with aromatherapy supplies, bath salts and hand-milled soaps that promise to impart an aura of serenity to the mundane affairs of the daily toilet. A few doors down, perfumed candles fill the New Age bookstore with the scent of generic spirituality. At the three-story emporium across the street, a kitchen store stocks votive candles for chafing dishes and long leggy tapers for the table, and a bed-and-bath boutique offers candles in the shape of angels and candleholders in the shape of stars. And now there’s a new shop on Main Street devoted to nothing but candles, a wax world of candles to match the seasons (Spring Lily, Pumpkin Patch and Candy Cane), create pleasing moods (Friendship, Cinnamon Buns and Baby Fresh) and restore body and mind (Stimulating, Balancing and Relaxing).


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