birthday candles

So, dearest birthday candles of my life; flicker if you must, melt, and be that one tiny, waxy moment that life, like a birthday celebration, is best enjoyed in slow little moments

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

Tiny, waxy sentinels of fleeting youth, or, depending on your perspective, tiny, waxy harbingers of imminent creakiness. Birthday candles stand there, a flickering chorus line on a sugary stage, each one saying: “Yay, you've survived another year! Now, prove it by blowing us out before we set the smoke alarm.”

I had a birthday recently and it got me thinking. These little flames are tiny, existential performance artists, each with their unique stage presence.

You stick them into a cake and suddenly, they develop a tiny wavering personality. Some burn brightly, eager to be extinguished. Others sputter and struggle, clinging to their brief, fiery existence like a toddler refusing a nap. And then there's always that one rogue candle, the rebel, that decides to melt sideways, dripping wax onto the frosting like a poorly done, existential crisis show watched in slow motion.

Over the years, I've amassed my fair share of birthday candles. This year, though, feels... different. A little like standing on the precipice of a new, slightly bewildering chapter.

The cake is baked, the friends are gathered (virtually, of course, thanks to the world's ongoing love affair with social distancing), but the candles... feel loaded with a strange, almost unsettling potential.

Will this year's candle be a supernova, a blindingly bright ray of mind-blowing awesomeness? Will it be a tiny, hesitant flicker, telling me to cherish the quiet moments? Or will it be a rogue, melting monstrosity, a sticky, waxy metaphor for the unpredictable chaos?

Honestly, I haven't a clue. And that, I think, is the point.

There's a certain comfort in the unknown, in the delightful anticipation of the flame. Because, despite the years and the various candle experiences, some similarities still hold.

• The anticipation: That moment of holding your breath, eyes squeezed shut, making a wish that's probably a ridiculous combination of “getting that one valuable client that changes my life,” and “finding a livable partner, someone that when I imagine five years together I do not see despair and exhaustion in my future.”

• The collective breath: The shared moment of puffing your breath in defiance against the passage of time.

• The slightly smoky aftermath: The lingering scent of burnt wax, which aligns with the fact that even the most fleeting moments leave a mark.

Maybe this year's candle will be a bit brighter, a bit more mind-blowing. Maybe it won't. Maybe it'll just be a regular, run-of-the-mill candle, doing its job, adding a touch of warmth and light to the moment in time of my life.

And it is okay. Because, at the end of the day, it's about the light the candle brings, the warmth of the moment, the shared laughter, and the simple act of celebrating another year of being wonderfully, imperfectly me.

So, dearest birthday candles of my life; flicker if you must, melt, and be that one tiny, waxy moment that life, like a birthday celebration, is best enjoyed in slow little moments that make us puff our breaths.

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Thanks for reading, I hope you’re well.