Candela

It’s dark here now, for hours it seems. Nonna went to bed around 12. You still seem to glimmer, though, barely, yet for some reason I can make out your red hue as I round the corner; the melted wax cascading down your tall column in the stillness of night. My blindness makes you turn into an aura of hope. A hope that this darkness isn’t going to last forever. A hope that I won’t have to hear Grandpa’s snoring for one second longer

It’s dark still. But this time the darkness only touches you. Nonna forgot to smother your flame before bed. I can still smell your last breath as it lingers in the air, though, as a cry for help that couldn’t be heard. I can still see your bright light when I close my eyes, the aura of hope you were in the darkness of the night. But now grandpa is awake, mumbling under his breath as his scratch offs pile high onto the table. Quickly Nonna whisks you away into that metallic graveyard, leaving you to become a waxy remnant of what you once were: tall, bright, red, and full of hope.

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