light

low

the candle was lit with shaking hands,

and i witnessed the wick spark and flutter.

the wax melted off the cotton stem and trickled onto the glowing white base.

my eyes wander to the cluster of jars perched next to mine.

they all held brilliant displays of remembrance and prayer

while mine sat,

flickering,

as though it could be snuffed out by the slightest kiss of wind.

no photos,

only prayer.

i try and sit still in the pews,

hoping to be enlightened.

i want nothing more than to feel the brush of god against my shoulder as he cradles me in his

light,

like a baby bird curled into the nest of small sticks and molding hay.

but for the moment,

i feel empty.

i am utterly

and undeniably

Empty.

i am a gourd that has been gutted just in time for the festivities,

hollow.

why,

if my ancestors are so intertwined with their heavenly god,

then why do i feel null in this place of worship?

i loosen my fingers from their interlaced trap.

i do not feel whole in this space.

my eyes wander and land on my candle.

the flame is still low,

as if it is cowering in shame.

reflective of its lighter,

i suppose.