Christie's Candles

The smell of everything bagels fills my nostrils. I can taste the seeds on my tongue. Cream cheese would make a wonderful blanket—hot chocolate seems appropriate to be holding. What it would be like to hold hands with serenity, feeling her silky calmness between each finger. I’m ready to sink into linen and velvet upholstery, pull out a good book, and let any daily stressors melt away. Except I can’t do that because an eccentric woman wearing a pink plaid apron shoves a 3-wick candle mere centimeters under my nose.

“Our Everything bagel candle is a fan favorite this season!” Her boisterous voice snaps me out of my daydream and invites me back to retail hell. Customers run rampant through the store, leaving various candles where they don’t belong. Shattered glass startles me six feet away, and one of the employees swiftly works through the crowd with a broom and dustpan. In big letters, the name “CHRISTIE” runs across the left side of her chest in bold, pink-and-white letters.

“I don’t think my mom would like it,” I exert my voice over countless conversations going on simultaneously around Christie and me. My mother’s birthday is this weekend—her fifth year in a row turning twenty-seven. Does she burn candles? I convince myself that it’s the thought that counts. 

Typically, employees aren’t as eager as Christie is to help. “What does your mother like?” She asks me, aquamarine pupils concentrating on me. 

My mind goes blank as a plethora of scents cause olfactory sensory overload. I don’t think my mom likes anything, or maybe she’s never told me. My mom probably wouldn’t like Christie that much: She’s peppy, loud, and too eager to please. I suddenly grasp onto a thought. “Oh, she likes apple pies!” Whenever my mother isn’t working, you can find her baking some of the most delicious apple pies in front of the oven. The taste of fresh apples and a hint of cinnamon is overwhelming as I imagine savoring a bite. 

Christie beams, “Let me grab you the perfect candle!” Her ponytail bounces behind her as she races towards what looks like a seasonal table of candles. She returns as quickly as a dog with its favorite stick. Christie lifts the red candle to my face, “This one is called ‘Warm Apple Slice.’ It has Macintosh apples, cinnamon, brown sugar, and sweet vanilla. Smell!”

I half-voluntarily inhale and am immediately transported back to my mom’s kitchen. She’s laughing, producing one of the heartiest laughs I’ve ever heard. I witness a beautiful, whimsical dance to no music in front of the stove. She takes both of my hands—at first, I’m embarrassed. But then, I drop my shoulders, let go of judgment, and dance. Our hips move side-to-side in an unsynchronized fashion. The smell of fresh apples with a hint of cinnamon is overwhelming. 

I jerk my head away from the candle and wipe a tear from my eye. “Maybe we could go with a different candle,” I noted. 

A slight frown forms on Christie’s face, but it quickly transforms into perseverance. “Tell me something else she likes.” This time, her hand is on the back of my right shoulder. 

“Watermelon lemonade!” I shouted. I don’t even know if she drinks that anymore. I also don’t know why that specific drink came to mind. But before I can debate what slipped out of my mouth, Christie appears in front of me with a new candle. It’s pink, and the candle’s aroma is a kiss from summer. 

“We specifically have a watermelon lemonade candle,” she assures me, “a perfect mix of juicy watermelon, freshly squeezed lemons, pure cane sugar, and love.” 

I’m a tad too eager as I pull the candle up to my nose and am taken to another dimension. My mother is again in the kitchen, messing with the blender. I feel younger and curious, and my mother can sense it. She doesn’t have to turn around to invite me into her culinary workspace. I’ve never heard of watermelon lemonade, as she’s showing me how to make it. 

“All you need is seedless watermelon, cold water, lemon juice, sugar, some ice cubes, and love.” I hear her voice; It’s velvety and warmer than any fireplace. 

My mother walks behind me and helps me remove the seeds from each watermelon piece. After the watermelon is pureed in the blender, we pour it into a bowl. She’s guiding my hand as we whisk the water, lemon juice, and sugar. I feel a wet kiss on my right cheek. I realize my mom snuck a couple pieces of watermelon for herself. I stare back at her, and our laughs merge. To get her back for my face being wet and sticky, I grab the kitchen sink sprayer, and a mist of water captures some of the cotton fibers of her shirt. My mom holds a strainer to shield herself. I instantly regret my choice to chase her when I feel a puddle of water soak the bottom of my foot, causing me to fall on my butt. My mother runs over and checks to see if I’m okay.

I shove the candle away from me and back into Christie’s hands. What were these candles doing to me? Christie’s ocean eyes reflect that of mine, her blonde ponytail a slightly lighter shade than the shaggy mop on my head. “Who are you?” I stutter.

The woman doesn’t answer my question and reveals a candle behind her. “Please let me show you one more candle, Zachary.” 

She knows my name—Every hair on my body stands up. This candle is gray and somehow overpowers any other scent in the store. 

“It’s called ‘Forgiveness.’ This candle isn’t one that you smell but that you feel.” I remain silent. “Maybe this is the candle my daughter would like.”

“Grandma?” Tears form in my eyes, clouding my vision slightly. “Is that really you?”

“You don’t have a lot of time.” She grabs both of my hands, and the warmth feels undeniably comforting. “Go see her, Zachy.”

“But what if she doesn’t forgive me?” I ask faintly. 

My grandmother responds, “A mother’s love is patient and forgiving when all others are forsaking; it never fails or falters, even though the heart is breaking.”

“Helen Rice,” I whisper between us. 

“One of your mother’s favorite writers.” She ushers the candles into my arms. “It might not be her forgiving you that needs accepting, but you to forgive yourself. Go. Be with her.”

As I head to the register, I look back and say, “Thank you, and I love you.”

No one is standing there, but my grandmother’s love for me encompasses my heart.

***

The car ride was silent the entire 30-minute drive. I stand in front of my mother’s house, the same one where all my childhood memories soaked into the wallpaper and floorboards. Leaves cover the walkway; I kicked a few out of my way, trying not to fall and shatter any of the candles. I knocked three times on the door—no answer. Maybe this was a mistake. Before I can decide to leave or knock again, the door opens. My mother’s blonde curls travel down both sides of her face. Her eyes well up, and her mouth makes an O-shape. 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I innocently say, tears streaming down my face.

She notices the candles buried underneath my arm.

“Your grandmother loved making candles—never really liked them.”

There’s a pause between us as I feel more regret. 

“But I love you,” she utters, unsuccessfully holding tears back. 

I place the candles on the porch and hug my mother tightly. “Happy twenty-seventh birthday.”