Candlewax

Winter is being such a drama queen this year.  Snowed in again, but I don't really mind.  It's an opportunity to get stuff done.  Since I don't want to waste spring days cleaning, I'm getting a jump on it and doing it now.  Eleven years of dog hair requires some pretty serious cleaning.

Everyone has drawers and cabinets full of forgotten junk.  These are the drawers and cabinets that rarely get opened, so unnecessary are their contents.  Since I am rearranging furniture as well as cleaning, I have had to empty these caches and make decisions about their future.  One cabinet was full of candles, candlesticks, candle sconces . . . all things waxy and fragrant and decorative.  I decided to sort through all this wax and try to pare down my collection.

I know for a fact that some of these candles have been with me since the 70s.  Seriously!  What is wrong with me?  In 40 years, I have not been able to find an occasion to burn these candles?  But, gee, that little unicorn candle is so damn cute.  How could I possibly melt it down to nothing?  Do you see my problem?

I am not going to tell you what decisions I made about the fate of all this candlewax.  You already know that breaking up is hard to do.  What I will tell you instead is a story about one particular candle, a cinnamon-scented red one encased in a decorative glass with a stained-glass globe on top.  This holiday candle was given to me by my son when he was eleven years old.  What I remember about that Christmas was taking him shopping so that he could buy his gifts for the people he loved.  I can still see him with his wallet full of all the money he owned, making wise decisions about the gifts he chose and carefully counting out his dollar bills to pay for them.  But shopping for a gift for his mom was a problem, as his father had died a year earlier and was not there to take his son shopping for a present for mom.  So my son was on his own to figure that one out.

A neighbor (who was also the mom of one of his friends) had a home decor business.  I can only imagine my son's concentration on selecting the perfect gift for his mom.  I do remember him coming home with a suspicious package that he hurried into his room.  And the look of pride on his face when I opened his gift at Christmas is an image forever etched in that part of memory that is reserved for only the most important events.

So today I fell in love with candles.  Or at least, one particular candle.  I intend to light it tonight, a beacon glowing strong in this snowy landscape.  And my thoughts turn to a favorite song of mine, from the 70s, when I was not burning my unicorn candle.  Tim Buckley's "Morning Glory" still blows me away with its beauty:

I lit my purest candle close to my
window hoping it would catch the eye
of any vagabond who passed it by
and I waited in my fleeting house.