Wax Hands

The smell of it, that clean, faint petrol,

when my niece made candles, small hands hot.

I remembered the block, hard and cold,

a smooth white brick in the pantry spot.

She'd dip the wick, then dip again,

and watch the milky skin take hold.

A slow art, teaching patience then,

a story whispered, never told.

Paraffin, the word a small hum,

a memory of heat and bright intent.

Before the light, before the numb,

just solid hope, perfectly sent.