A poem…
Go to a candle store, pick out three candles.
Your favourites
Do they speak to you?
Do they tell you a story?
Do they represent your life?
Or are they a mere reflection of somebody elseβs? Too simple, too empty
Β
If I could make my own three candles
My favourites
They would make me feel something
They would take me to another time
They would represent my life
Not one simple scent, but a thousand memories
Β
Candle number one, its white
It reminds me of white walls and polished floors
Its clean, crisp and smells of disinfectant
The good kind
It neither pleases me, nor scares me
It is simply familiar
Β
Candle number one, its white
My nose now remembers it with a sense of comfort
It knows something, something deeply personal
I am not afraid, that scent taught me to be brave
For without that scent, I would not be here
The hospital
Β
Candle number two, its red
It reminds of dark rooms and vast opens spaces
Cigarettes. Alcohol. Passion. People
Meetings and rallies from my childhood
Memories I recall from tales told by family and loved ones
My father speaking loudly and with passion
Β
Candle number two, its red
They taught us to fight, to work towards change,
They cheer, they scream, they chant
They called for a revolution; they still have hope
They remember me too, the daughter of the working-class struggle
Socialism
Β
Candle number three, its blue
Like the colour of her eyes
The scent comes from her clothes, her skin, her hair
Itβs warm
Itβs calming
Itβs home
Β
Candle number three, its blue
Its there when she takes me in her arms
Arms that take me back to my childhood
When Iβd fall asleep in those arms, and wake up in those sheets
That smelled just like her
My mother
Β
If I could make my own three candles
My favourites
They would make me feel something
They would take me to another time
They would represent my life
Not one simple scent, but a thousand memories
Β
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