After reading the Dear Abby article in the newspaper on lighting your candles, my mother held a constant service in our apartment. And it worked not only as a reminder that life was short and meant to be enjoyed with illumination, but also in the sense when it became long with heartache, we had the ability to snuff it out.
If I was worried about a Monday morning test at school, Sunday afternoon, amid the work and worry, my mother would light the kitchen candle and tell me to snuff it out. Release all that anxiety into a puff of smoke. Sometimes again and again until the smoke alarm went off. And maybe it was the snuffing, or the alarming sound, but I think I always knew that the real magic was her.
I came to believe in myself, because she believed in me first.
My candle snuffer is bedside. It works mostly from joy. Mostly from the candles kept lit in celebration of this beautiful life. And would I have felt it without her — I’ll never have to know. The magic continues.
