Until the Night We Lit a Candle Together

A short story — We lost Dad, and then we lost each other. But even in grief, something still burned.

Artwork by the author.

“Your job is just to keep your inner flame lit. Love you forever”.

I read it over and over again. Dad’s handwriting was a scribble at the best of times. I sighed and put the birthday card back in my bedside drawer. I scrunched up my nose, wiping salty tears from my cheek as I sniffed. How could it be a year already? Seems like yesterday he was still here celebrating with me.

I stretched and turned my neck to each side, noting the fading light outside my window. It would be dark soon. Best make a move. I pulled on my coat and wrapped my scarf up to my chin, my fingers rummaging in my pockets. Keys… keys? Ah yes! I spied them lying next to my unfolded laundry on the dining table. I reached for them and got distracted by the constellation of white wax splattered on the table around the candelabra. Damn! How did I not see that last night? I cursed myself quietly for having that last glass of red, vowing to be more careful at the next anniversary dinner.

I stepped outside. The air was crisp with a slight breeze, making the leaves on the trees move in a slow, gentle way. So gentle I catch myself questioning whether I saw the leaves move at…