Goodnight, candle.


Every night we light a candle for you.


This is what we have of you:

a ceramic urn, your ashes,

a framed black and white of my belly a few days before you died,

your ink and watercolor butterfly,

a box of cards—sympathy cards, baby shower cards, receipts for donations made in your name,

the yellow blanket they wrapped you in,

a knit cap with a stain of blood (yours or mine?),

a CD of pictures after your birth,

a few ultrasound photos,

your stuffed lamb,


and this flame

we hesitate to blow out each night.


Goodnight, candle,

we say,

instead of good night to you,

because you burn still in my heart,

a constant light,

warm and small and bright.


© Burning Eye


2 thoughts on “Goodnight, candle.

  1. Tess says:

    Exquisite,truly the agony and the ecstasy. Your words are art.
    A flame that will never burn out. My boy’s flame burns in my heart, sometimes it scalds but as time passes I learn to take the warmth without the scold.

  2. This is painfully and undeniably beautiful.

    We light a candle for Zia often, its too painful to ritualise it, its too hard. My heart aches for her, the Light, any light, is a contant reminder of her life and of her death too. My son wants to light “his baby’s” candle every chance he gets. Bless his beautiful, very sad soul.

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