The first night, 9:20 p.m.
The house is so quiet I can hear the kitchen clock. I never knew it ticked.
I pass their room. The light is already off. For years, I was the one who turned it off.
This quiet isn't empty. It's full of everything we were.
I text, “Did you make it?” A little heart comes back. I hold the phone a moment longer than I need to.
I gave them every part of my day, and I'd do it all again. But somewhere in all that love, I forgot what I liked. So tonight I make my tea, and for the first time in years, I drink it while it's hot.
I made this candle for the first night the house is yours again. Pear, bright as a new beginning. Honey, warm as the tea you finally finish. White oak, the home that held everyone, and still holds you.
I raised them to fly. I forgot I could, too.
I've been here before. But never quite like this.
