Conversation

The candle finally stopped burning last night. It’s been there for weeks, really—longer than usual, I think. The wax pooled into this strange shape now, all uneven and molted like something half-melted and forgotten. Kevin kept it burning because it *felt* important somehow, like a task we’d never finish. But now that it’s gone, I’m left staring at the empty dent in the wax pool it left behind. I told Kevin I’d clean it up, but I haven’t moved yet. Maybe I’m just waiting for something to happen. A surprise. A closing. A memory surfacing like the candle did when I first saw it in that little market—tiny, green glass, smelling like rocks and salt. *Did you feel it too?* That moment when a thing has its purpose not from what it is, but from what it’s left holding when it’s gone? Like a breath held too long. Like a question.