Candles

Candles, I love candles. I love the wick, the smokiness curling from them, the scented ones- the natural ones- not the harsh artificial flowers which are somewhat like plastic funeral flowers, but the ones that evoke pine needles, home baked goods, pumpkins or leafy sun- warmed trees drooping under the weight of luscious plums, blood oranges or passion fruit.
It is the basic candle though, that truly draws me in, its very perfectly imperfect waxen whiteness, not transparent, but a whisper of it implied in layers.

When we were children, Selwyn Segal hospital, in South-Africa, used to have sheltered employment for their mentally and physically disabled patients. They used to make candles which arrived in a blue cardboard box with the prayer for candle lighting on the side.
I would look at the slim, smooth wax candles, lined up in the box, like a box of cigar ghosts, and imagine those determined adults, who struggled to do things most people found simple, just carefully pouring candle after candle.
Religious families would light these candles on shabbat and holidays, one for every member of the family. So there would be a family of flames flickering on the sideboard while we had our shabbat meal. My Parents would invite many guests they collected like strays from all over the place. It was eclectic and warm and slightly, madly wonderful.

But candles truly gave meaning and comfort for me when my father died of brain cancer, it was just days before my tenth birthday, and he had fought bravely for every day he could remain with us, but in the end, the Angel of Death had gathered him up, right out of that hospital bed and held him, scooping up all that pain and suffering he had endured, setting it aside with his earthly body, and had taken him home.

There is a jewish tradition of lighting a candle in memory of the soul for an entire year after the death, and then each year on the anniversary of the death.
He was gone. The fight had gone on so long, there were scars of it everywhere. The house felt so strange, it was muffled in swathes of grief. Everything looked the same of course, his large bottles of stomach medicine its chalky sediment caked on the bottle, was still on the countertop. His well worn-in plaid couch, lay right by the window, with the yellow afternoon sun alighted through the fractured old fashioned windowpanes. The bereaved cat Panther sadly drooped on it.

One thing was not the same.... the lit candle on the sideboard flickered incessantly. Changes were to come, we were to move to an apartment, but the candles had already been lit, from the moment of death, and I approached it...warily, after all, playing with fire was somewhat frowned upon... But after a few days, I could sit up close, watch the flickering through the glass.. and would sit and wonder about the flame, how it was at once, not solid, nor liquid, nor air but its own element, and I could understand the concept of soul, and life without a body. We had to exist like flames elsewhere.
With time, I could cup the glass between my hands, warm them up, have them glow eerily, warmly, cupping the flame between them. There I stayed, for hours.

As the candles burnt down, day after day, week after week, month after month, another would be lit before the other went out. I took that as licence to experiment on the one still burning. I would pour hot wax onto my fingers, marvelling as the shape of my fingers took form in wax and solidified. It was brittle, white, slightly greasy and rarely lasted more then a few minutes, but it was changing form, and it was warm.

After awhile I could pour some hot wax and shape something beautiful, create a sculpture as it cooled in my hands. I had to do it quickly. I saved some of those for days, but most often relegated them back into the flames to be melted back into potential. I think Abba would have liked that, he loved a bit of mischievous creativity.

The other day I did it again, at a restaraunt, they left a candle on the table and as it melted down, and wax pooled into a tempting, clear, viscous puddle around the flame, I poured some out into my hands and without thinking too much about it, quickly molded a heart for someone I care about greatly.
I was instantly transported back into a quiet room, dark except for the dancing flickering candle through the glass and the feel and scent of hot wax on my skin, and the calm and comfort of knowing the soul was afire in some other realm, his soul was afire in some other space, we are but wax on fire.