Grandma died and I got her candles.
Classic, tall, thin, just like Rita's figure.
And her scent.
So many candles with white wicks.
In a boot box.
Not a shoe box.
I don't like seeing them burn away but this is what candles do.
Rita is gone, and I burn each candle with a thought of her.
Not by intention, not as if I am lighting a candle and sitting beside it, in some deep thought.
I light one at a time.
Today a blue one burns in an empty whiskey bottle on my kitchen table.
The flame is steady and constant like Rita.
The candle is secure with a tight fit in the bottle top.
I wish she burned these candles.
It doesn't seem fair.
A widow for so many years, was she afraid to light one and reflect.
Did she just not give a shit about candles.
The candles being practical, when the power went out in violent Indiana thunderstorms.
Rita was simple. Practical. She knew more than she would expose.
She knew not to waste her time expressing what she learned from her struggles.
She stayed on the surface for the sake of family.
She had so much within but suppressed for the sake of the common, stone, midwestern god fearing family and friends.
Miller High Life and Winston smokes.
Playing cards, a rosary.
I took the candles and a deck of playing cards with "Florida" printed on them, a classic beach scene.
Palm tree, sun setting and a boat. "Souvenir from Florida", the plastic box reads.
Lonely Rita, at her kitchen table.
Seems I think of you more now with you in the grave, than when you were at your kitchen table.
I know you had your Catholic faith.
I realize now how strong you were.
A couple candles are scented.
Spiced plum pales to the scent of your home, in the box as a whole.
As a whole, they are Rita candles.
Rita in the living room, where nothing ever changed.
The couch, the curtains, the carpet, nothing changed and this constancy is a fragrance embedded within the candles.
So simple, primitive, and today, and tomorrow, you burn with me.
Classic, tall, thin, just like Rita's figure.
And her scent.
So many candles with white wicks.
In a boot box.
Not a shoe box.
I don't like seeing them burn away but this is what candles do.
Rita is gone, and I burn each candle with a thought of her.
Not by intention, not as if I am lighting a candle and sitting beside it, in some deep thought.
I light one at a time.
Today a blue one burns in an empty whiskey bottle on my kitchen table.
The flame is steady and constant like Rita.
The candle is secure with a tight fit in the bottle top.
I wish she burned these candles.
It doesn't seem fair.
A widow for so many years, was she afraid to light one and reflect.
Did she just not give a shit about candles.
The candles being practical, when the power went out in violent Indiana thunderstorms.
Rita was simple. Practical. She knew more than she would expose.
She knew not to waste her time expressing what she learned from her struggles.
She stayed on the surface for the sake of family.
She had so much within but suppressed for the sake of the common, stone, midwestern god fearing family and friends.
Miller High Life and Winston smokes.
Playing cards, a rosary.
I took the candles and a deck of playing cards with "Florida" printed on them, a classic beach scene.
Palm tree, sun setting and a boat. "Souvenir from Florida", the plastic box reads.
Lonely Rita, at her kitchen table.
Seems I think of you more now with you in the grave, than when you were at your kitchen table.
I know you had your Catholic faith.
I realize now how strong you were.
A couple candles are scented.
Spiced plum pales to the scent of your home, in the box as a whole.
As a whole, they are Rita candles.
Rita in the living room, where nothing ever changed.
The couch, the curtains, the carpet, nothing changed and this constancy is a fragrance embedded within the candles.
So simple, primitive, and today, and tomorrow, you burn with me.
