You’ve been gone five months now and I still burn a candle in our bedroom almost every night. On the rare occasion when I don’t, the darkness in the room seems palpable and the temperature perceptibly colder. The candle is more than just a symbolic memorial tribute. The soft glow and warmth imparted by that tiny flame is like a reassuring hand on my shoulder as if to say, “it’s okay my dear, I am here with you.” I sleep better when the candle burns.
Early on, I conjured an analogy between the light from the candle and my grief. In those early days, weeks, and months, the pain of loss was fresh and raw; and I related that to the intensity at the burning wick where the flame is hottest. Now, with a little more passage of time, I feel myself moving outward from the wick itself, toward the tip of the flame where the heat and intensity start to dissipate into the surrounding space. There is still pain and sadness; but, like the flickering flame beyond the wick, it is not quite as intense and no longer constant.
Grief is like holding a hand above a burning candle. The memory of you is the flame and the hand represents my heart. If a hand is placed too close, the pain is intense, and the flesh will turn red and blister. The farther away from the flame the heat diminishes and there is a critical point where the hand can remain to feel the warmth without being burned. Beyond that point, there is neither pain nor warmth. I think grief is the process of trial and error to find that point of equilibrium where there is comforting warmth without pain.
For me, at this time, the third-degree blisters have started to heal but there is still underlying redness and discomfort. So, I will keep burning the candle for its imagery and soak in its subdued light and warmth as I continue along this journey.
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