They are the only ones who remember me. I am the only one who remembers them. Eighteen burning candles with burning wax dripping down and wicks slowly turning to ashes. Eighteen illuminating this otherwise dark empty room. Eighteen glowing candles to shed some light. Through the window I can peek at them, but my mother warns I can never touch them.

Their meanings are secret. They send halos to the heavens. They ignite the doors and they ignite the windows and they scorch the earth with tendrils of orange and caress every corning and never stop spreading. This is how they glow.

Let one forget her reason for flickering, they’d all be extinguished like dominoes in a neat row, each blowing out the next. Glow, glow, glow, candles say when I breathe. They live.

When I am too exhausted and too overwhelmed to keep glowing, when I am about to let out a wearied sigh, then it is I see the candles in the window. When they are all I have to focus on. Eighteen who stand tall. Eighteen who prevail and don’t forget to pass the torch. Eighteen whose only reason is to light and ignite.