The House On Calamus Meadow

As I sit in front of this small flame, I am reminded of our trips to the lake house in Maine. The nights were much darker there, in the cabin burried forty pines deep on Calamus Meadow, and the only sound we'd hear were the crickets' symphonies and the crack and pop of the damp wick on the table candle, just like this one. Its wick is sunken deep into the jar. The once clean and clear glass is now blackened and each time I reach down inside to light the wick, my hand rubs the sides and I'm left with black knuckles. This particular candle is one of those fancy Yankee Candle candles, except it's an immitation, so the fragrance is weak and stale smelling, and the lable on the front has started to slide around now that the glue has softened from the heat inside the jar. Just picking it up once will result in sticky, smelly hands for the rest of the day. The flame jumps back and forth with the breeze of the ceiling fan in a wya that has begun to irritate me now. The light shoots in every direction so violently, it almost hurts my eyes to look directly at it. Instead of this being a warm and relaxing experience, it's rapidly changing shapes have gotten me so frustrated, I look away. This relentless flickering remains in my peripheral vision, so I decide I've had enough. I shove the poor cat off my lap and lunge at the candle from the couch. With one agressive breath, I huff out the flame and then smother the smoking wick with my spit-soaked fingers. I am satisfied now, and soon I'll fall asleep in the dark, and while this stale smell lingers through the night, I'll wake in the morning remembering a dream I've had of the house on Calamus Meadow.