Tonight, I think I burned the last candle of my nightly vigil since the day you died. It has been 10-1/2 months, approximately 300 candles, and it feels like it is time to stop. Not because I’m finished with my grief, but something has changed.
At first, the candle was a desperate attempt to maintain a connection with you. Something to ease the loneliness of loss and provide a warming touch in the darkest of nights. At some point it became a figurative light in the darkness guiding me through the grief process. This nighttime ritual of looking at your picture and lighting the candle as my last act of each day was part sacred memorial and part childish equivalent of a night light to ward off monsters.
I have used the burning candle as a symbol in my writing throughout this season of grief. The flame gives off the searing heat of pain if held too close, but also soothing warmth and illumination. Lately, similar to staring at the flickering flames or glowing embers in a fireplace, that tiny flame on the candle on my dresser has been a portal for me to look inside myself. And what I see there now is a man who is better for having known you, loved you, built a life with you, taken care of you in sickness, and yes, even for having lost you.
I am sad and angry that you are gone, and for what was lost. But I realize that is not something I can control. What I can do is choose how I will live the rest of my life without you. Rather than letting grief incapacitate me and becoming a lifeless shell, I choose to embrace your memory and strive to live better because of it all.
And so, this revelation has led me to the conclusion that I don’t need to burn the candle every night any longer. There are big changes coming, and I don’t know exactly where I am going, but I feel like I am on the right path. Now, I think the candle will be reserved for special occasions as a memorial and as an invitation for you to see me.
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