The Unavoidable Scope of Death, or, My Favorite Candle

by Hannah Barrett
Art by Abby Huls

When my favorite candle, gifted to me by my father,
(It smelled like pine, it reminded me of home)
Was about to go out, it was quiet.
Then, it flickered.
Then, rather suddenly,
There was a small explosion, almost as if to say,
“I’m leaving now!”
Then, it went out.
I imagine that is what death must feel like.

My father and I speak to each other in
Inside jokes and witty comments.
We do not talk about hurt, or jealousy, or anger.
We do not talk about death.
At my grandmother’s funeral, my father and I made jokes about
How we could not hear the priest through his mask, and
How the old ladies huddled together in circles at the back after the ceremony.
They pinched my father and I’s cheeks and told us how much we had grown.

My father watched both of his parents die.
My father doesn’t talk about it.
Neither of us speak of hurt, or jealousy, or anger
Or death.
I imagine he thinks of death the same way I do.
I wonder if he thought his parents smelled like pine and home.
I wonder if that’s why he gave me the candle.
He doesn’t usually give gifts like that.
My father and I are eerily similar for this reason.

The only exception to our similarities is that
Only one of us has Parkinson’s.
Parkinson’s is a lot like
The restless shaking of your fingertips when you have too much coffee,
Except that it gets worse every day, 
And eventually you lose your memory along with it.
To mimic my father’s shaking, I drink coffee.
My father and I are eerily similar for this reason.

Only one of us can’t drive
(Although my father insists that’s me)
Only one of us will slowly lose focus of the world
Only one of us will forget the other’s name with time.
Time.
So much yet so little, a helpless paradox. I have nightmares about my father dying
All the time. I wonder if he has those same nightmares about me.
I’m sure he does, because every time I see him, he hugs me a little tighter.
I do the same.

This notion of time moves like a lazy wind
And stirs the trees.
I imagine this wind is what causes candles to go out.
My father makes jokes about time
And I laugh, although reluctantly,
Because I know that his jokes hold fear behind them.
I wonder what his small explosion will look like.
My father bought me a pine-scented candle.
I think about it all the time.