What We Keep

Eight candles in a drawer,

bone-colored wax from a store

that closed in '87,

price tags faded, never burned,

just kept like they had earned

some kind of heaven.

I picked one up. The smell

was her—the hallway where she'd dwell,

the careful way she saved things whole,

the quiet that was her goal.

The wax was smooth and perfect still.

Never lit by anyone's will.

Just waiting in the dark

for one last, burning spark.

I lined them on the shelf,

eight small gifts to herself,

proof that we save and keep

the things we carry while we sleep.

One fell as I walked away.

The sound was small. I didn't stay.

I left it rolling on the floor.

Some things don't need saving anymore.