The Final Candle

• Sarah Maikari, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2022

My mother always had three candles. When they burned, their flames were soft, luminous in their glow, you could almost hear them speak, but only if you listened close enough. They adorned the windowsill, tall in stature, and usually left aflame for days at a time. It was always three candles, never more, never less and every few days, when the wick no longer burned, she replaced them, needing only the spark of her hope to light them. It was a sort of comfort, to know it would always be the same candles, the same scent, the same position on the windowsill.

My mother blew out candle number two when I was fifteen years old. She had never blown out a candle before, always letting them burn out on their own. But this time was different. She never lit it again and never replaced it when it came time to replace the others.

When the fall of the missiles started, everyone found cover. Mother did too. She shut the curtains in her room, put on a black gown and pulled a blanket over her head. She did this for weeks. Months, maybe. But in those rare moments where she accompanied me outside of her room, she would dust off our candles and make us lunch, and tell stories of the bloodshed outside.

I kept the two candles burning. At least, for a while I did. But mother slowly faded away into nothingness, hidden away under the covers, sleeping away the terror. When I made my way to the kitchen, I walked past the unlit candle, untouched for months, neglected, left behind, I saw a vision of myself. I must admit, it foolishly took some time to realise what was going on. As sweet as her excuses were, I understood his candle burnt past its use. We had lost him forever this time, and a candle that has reached its end can never be reburned. It is a mere burnt wick and pile of wax, only remembered for the window it lit up. I took a breath as I looked upon the last two flames. A representation of all that remained. One for me. One for her. I hesitated at first, thinking of how she tried to be a good mother. But I knew now that I had truly lost her a long time ago, so I closed my eyes and blew out her flame.

And then there was one. I picked up the remaining candle between my cold hands, and sat on the floor, legs crossed. It came to me then that I had not only lost Adam and my mother, but with the grief of their loss, I had lost myself too. And with that, I blew out the final candle, this time it wasn’t with the pain of my mothers loss or the uncertainty that my brother would never return, but with the comfort that we will find each other in a better place.