Her Candle
Her Candle
So many candles I’ve never burned.
A marriage candle,
two first communion candles from my kids,
a bicentennial candle,
millennium candle.
So many candles I’ve never burned.
Her candle I’ve burned for over twenty years,
not every day, but most every day.
A memory of what once was,
of what we had
me and her,
her candle.
Originally voluptuously large,
beautifully ornate,
burning bright hot and fast.
We were young then.
Gradually her candle grew old,
became hollow.
Most of the outside still holding fast,
dusty with age,
the wick long lost,
in darkness temporarily filled
with a tea light candle.
Certain songs, movies or moods
seem to rekindle the freshness,
remind me of when her candle was new.
In the light of day reality blazes,
her candle actually an empty shell.
So hard to visualize as it once was,
as in last night’s memory.
Beginning to wonder,
continuing to wonder,
if, after all this time,
I shouldn’t just throw it out.
This foolish vigil,
this senseless old man,
end this memorial,
this ritual and move on.
But, as the room grows dark,
the many candles I’ve never burned
remain so.
A new tea light candle
and she is back.
We, me and her,
her candle
and my thoughts
of twenty years ago.
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