It’s a two quarters, garage sale candle. It’s a goofy-looking frog from the 70’s. His mouth is wide open with a tongue that’s hanging down into his lap. He sits Budha-like, with the wick squarely between his comically large eyes. And he’s not sweating it. Even when the wick catches and he is immediately disfigured, the frog never loses his sense of humor.
It’s a decorative candle: one not meant to be lit. So it sat for years not doing what it was designed to do.
As far as I’m concerned, I set that frog free. Because a candle knows better than most not to worry about tomorrow.
My decorative candle for years was a hand giving you the finger, the wick popping from the offending appendage. In fact, drinking turned me into a walking, talking wax figure. When things got too hot, people freaked out. I’d messily attempt to shove my features back into place, only to create a worse grotesque.
Next morning in the mirror my middle finger’s again at full attention as I comb back the gnarled wick for a new day. A more pathetic cycle of living Edgar Allen Poe himself couldn’t have dreamed up. The horror in my own head.
For today: burn a different candle. Maybe something pumpkin-scented?