In my home,
the candles
never burned.

They just sat out
there and there; On top
of the dining room table
and tucked within drawers.
Planted in elegant crystal,
beside plastic
flower arrangements.
Between old china
and the silver silverware;
An entire room goes

Driven by fears,
my mother never lit one.
And my father—
it never occurred
that lighting a candle
was something
he should have done.

Fresh wicks; All of them.
Wax, string, and dust.
Generations old— but fresh
and still
with limitless potential
to shine light in the places
where candles never burned.

After they pass,
I’m going to light those wicks
all at once
and sit there in that room
until the house of my home
is filled only
by ash and
by dark.

written on 01/30/2012 by: Matt Kane