My flame flickers and dances,
my warmth filling the room.
I may smell like spring rain,
bringing memories of magnolias crushed under yellow rain boots
as you hop from muddy puddle to muddy puddle.
I might smell of waves crashing against a sandy shore,
tangy salt tickling your nose.
Something warmer maybe,
like pumpkin pie while sitting by the fire,
cinnamon brushing against your senses.
Or perhaps I smell like sugar cookies,
warm, freshly baked,
reminding you of days spent around a table,
creating snow from sprinkles—red, green, frosty pink.
My flame pulsates—
yellow, orange, blue.
Dim, dimmer, dimming . . .
Black soot settles on crystal—
Small and smaller,
my flame begins to wilt.
Wax pools around my wick,
and I fade,
slowly . . .
With a last breath,
your memories remain locked—
in a jar.
Written by Jeshanah McLeod
Written by Jeshanah McLeod
