Death-i-versary part 2
I couldn’t decide whether I wanted a candle burning for the photo or the candle after I blew it out.
Last night I was thinking about what it means for someone to die. It’s like a light blinks out—the light that animates us. When I said that to Erin she asked if I meant like a star going out. Which makes sense, except it seemed to me more like a fire going out—the fire that keeps each of us living.
So I hunted around for a candle and found a box of 2 beeswax candles that we bought on a wine tasting trip—I don’t know what we planned to do with them. I found them, but I couldn’t find the brass candlesticks Donna sent me as a wedding gift for my first marriage. My guess is that they are packed in the cedar chest out in the garage—I can’t open it because there are things piled on top of it.
So I found a short glass and packed it with a napkin so that the candle would stand up straight. But then I wasn’t sure how I would light it. I dug around in the kitchen junk drawer and found 2 books of matches from the barber shop Randy liked so much—now Mystery Cuts. When covid shut so many things down, Randy’s barber set up a tiny area in his house for haircuts. I’m not sure Randy ever went there because he never went anywhere during covid, but he had a great warmth toward the young man.
So I put the candle on the windowsill in the office where I often read at night. I sat reading in my comfy chair, looking up frequently to watch the candle burn down, burn away, getting shorter. As Randy’s life did.
I played Van Morrison’s Have I told You Lately, watched the flame, and I thought about how much Randy had comforted me in our nearly 3 decades together, how much he’d loved me and how much I’d loved him.
And when the time felt right I blew out the candle. And cried.