Watching Candles Burn, by Mark Tulin

I know my mother’s here
by her presence
in the white candle
that burns on the sink
in the kitchen.

I know she hovers
by the way
the red glow flickers
in the shadows.

She always loved
watching flames
of Yahrzeit candles
slowly burning wax
to the bottom of the glass.

It made her feel
not so lost
and deserted
by the family
who left her behind.

Even, now, in death,
she still needs
a white candle to burn,
to keep her spirit
from flickering out.

***

Previously published in Spillwords Press.

Featured image by Myriams-Fotos on Pixabay.

This poem is also available in my poetry collection, Junkyard Souls.