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 else’s? Too simple, too empty

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

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

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

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

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

Candle number three, its blue

Like the colour of her eyes

The scent comes from her clothes, her skin, her hair

It’s warm

It’s calming

It’s home

Candle number three, its blue

Its there when she takes me in her arms

Arms that take me back to my childhood

When I’d fall asleep in those arms, and wake up in those sheets

That smelled just like her

My mother

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