Eternal Flame
I cup my hand around our flame and preserve the glow
Grandmother.
The soft, white light of the stubbed candle,
Glazed with layers upon layers of wax
Melted and hardened from each use,
Illuminated her seasoned face,
Defining the imprints of age and experience,
Which varied in expanse and depth.
As I inch myself closer to her warm presence,
I angle my candle towards hers.
Wicks kissing, the flame dances and licks the air.
Yet my candle recoils
And refuses to light.
With a tender smile, she places her leathered hand atop mine
And guides my naïve wick towards her own, unraveling cord.
I shift her hand into my own and awe at the difference in size-
A Lilypad upon a lake.
My thumb traces the myriad of bumps and bruises.
Veins-The River Nile.
Spots, deepened by age,
pepper her skin as constellations do the sky,
Connecting time to the frame.
I feel the grooves of the past.
Each crease encasing a memory
And every wrinkle revealing a challenge.
I watch as her candle lights mine
Before snuffing out and dimming her side of the room.
For as generations flicker between dawn and dusk,
I cup my hand around our flame and preserve the glow.
I salvage the remnants of her candle, unifying it with mine.
Her wax drips onto my hand,
Planting an embrace before hardening.
Smiling, I peel it off my bodily canvas as a virgin tear escapes my eye.
A Burn.
A Symbol.
A Memory.
~a.c.mottau
