Caregiver as Candle

Pliable. Beeswax for golden glow, gel for longevity, soy so as not to destroy you. Burns and burns again, wick a slow lick of light in darkness, a hovering of heat to palm as it brushes the air. Waits bedside for lovers to appear, in carved pumpkins, chianti wine bottles, late-night mason jars, wreaths of spruce and fir, flickering in ice, glass votives in a row like shot glasses at an alcoholic’s funeral. Stuck in a tiny pie plate—how they sputter and drown in their own melting, wick pulled from hot lava of wax to be lit again. Some studded with jewels—bedazzled, others with sand and seashells. Cuffs of cardboard held in hopeful hands in dark churches as thuribles arc incense through the air, the smell of hair burning—the pat pat pat of neighbours’ hands putting out small conflagrations. Snuffed, faint smoke a snake ribboning up and dispersing, every molecule mixed with the air you inhale. Squat, tall, taper, pedestal. Baptismal light wrapped in tissue and boxed in the basement. The forgotten candle left to wick out, found in the morning—its liquid fluency hardened into the cold fact of near-disaster. Or left burning by an open window, muslin curtain billowing out into the evening.