Grace Holcomb


Four years have shed almost all evidence of him, yet the safest corner of my home is
still a shelter for the candle he gave my mother. She smiled as she smelled, the
Lodgepole Pine scent of her gift that Christmas Eve. Each letter on its label perfectly
spaced away from the other in a tastefully chosen font. I’ve read every word of the
directions and the warning sign. The last line clearly says, “Do not leave unattended,”
…so I don’t.

Black smoke has stained the glass like scattered shadows, haunting the candle’s rim.
Melted wax has frozen into crooked, erratic lines—leaving a wick too weak for fire.
I’ve tried holding this cylindrical gift more carelessly in my palms, hoping the
absence of my affection might shock and reawaken its spirit. Perhaps it would uncurl
to look up into my eyes, silently realizing it has missed its old spark and maybe
everything about me, too.

Contorting my wrist in wild angles and burning my thumbs, reaching for its withering
torch became my way of hoping. After each brand new lighter proved the candle’s
mortality, I would lean my nose inside. Inhaling one shot of its air, I’d see the outline
of his fingerprints—painting my waist, dripping down my thighs, swirling like silky
ribbons between my toes.

I’d watch until the very last second, then pull myself away to brace for armies of
emotion. Echoes of invisible soldiers holding me hostage to the past… that striking
glow that once enthralled my pupils, making them follow and obey every sway. Now
sitting so still. So dark.