A Candle Inside The Child

People count the years by candles and quiet tears. The twenties, they say, are when we wait for the first cry from a miracle just learning to breathe. But some of us, like me, never quite grow up. Peter Pan weeps each time the rain brushes my shoulders. I come alive again only in fleeting moments, like the string that’s slipped from a flying kite. Just days ago, that child stirred again — flickering like a candle, reaching toward her teacher, a man with nothing but quiet grace, yet rich in the kind of ways that make you believe in yourself. She longed to share a small bright win, a spark like a candle’s tip — just enough to set a heart aglow beneath the gaze that once gave her presence when the world turned away. For the first time, I wanted to tell someone — so fully — like a child unafraid to confess, trusting there’d be an empty seat, and eyes that wait. I once thought, on the day I might break, as wax melts over a birthday cake — would God have mercy and let me return as my teacher’s daughter? But now I know — even the most beautiful dream can turn to dust if we forget to hold the present while it’s still here. Even something lovelier can still feel like a passing crush — picked up with wonder, and dropped when wonder fades.