Tears slide down pale cheeks. Drip, drip, drip.
The flame of the candle gives off little heat and hardly any comfort. Drip, drip, drip. The wax burns long, thin fingers.
Ouch.
A hiss of pain; the only sound in the silent, dark park. It is so quiet, so eerily silent, that nothing breaks it. There is not even the sound of breathing.
Are we ghosts? That thought runs through several minds.
Funny, how so very different people think alike.
Right. Pain. Hot wax.
The wax has solidified, becoming that smooth, Elmer's glue-like white. The fingers burn no more.
Liquefied wax pools under the bright yellow flame. A bead of hot liquid slides down the side of the small, thin candle. Another drop manages to slip through the crack in the 'hand protector'. Why even bother if the hot, burning white wax slips through anyway?
Push the thumb nail under the hardening wax. Remove it. Rearrange the fingers. Another drop slips through. It misses the fingers, but just barely.
Small yellow flames dot the dark, silent park. The people are beyond sobbing, merely weeping soundlessly now. Water leaks from bloodshot eyes, leaving twin trails of shiny wet in their wake. The tracks of tears reflect the yellow glow of the candle.
All for the woman who died too young.
Detachment. Yes, that is this feeling. Even surrounded, the feeling of being utterly alone is sickly sweet. It is overwhelming, suffocating. The lungs deflate, collapse.
There is no air, only small yellow flames that give no heat and little comfort.
They will never come back. The candles serve no purpose except to draw the oxygen away from the needy lungs. Those in the park will soon join the one they mourn.
The flames are greedy, evil. Melt the wax to burn the fingers. The paper that should protect the hand is the flame's minion, doing its bidding. It pretends to protect you, to gather the wax.
Except that it doesn't. It lets the hot, white wax drip, drip, drip through to burn the fingers.
To remind you that you are still alive.
To remind you that you are still alive and the one you mourn is not.
The urge to throw the candle on the ground and walk away is strong, but the thought of the dry, brittle grass catching on fire- and burning, sucking in the oxygen greedily- stays the hand.
There is no reprieve from the thoughts.
She had a son. She had a husband, who is also dead.
They are dead.
The thought loops around and around, never wavering like the flames in the hands of many.
That flame that wishes to remind them that they are alive while she is not.
The mourners will never see her face. They were told that her body is too mangled from the car crash for the viewing.
It is all a ruse.
A glance at a nearly full moon says that the full moon is only days away. Weakness from the illness already tears at the soul, crawls through the muscles, grips at the bones, settles in right beside the sorrow.
Is there no reprieve?
No, there is not. There is always pain lurking in the heart. It was always there, but now it is stronger. The pain has spread to rest in the soul at the grieving of a loved one.
It all happened too soon. There was no warning.
Drip, drip, drip. The hot, white wax burns long, thin fingers. Tears streak down pale cheeks.
Drip, drip, drip. The candle gives off little light and hardly any comfort. In fact, if offers no comfort at all. All it does is strike a chord of loneliness, now. It reminds of the cold.
Drip, drip, drip.
Hiss. Sob.
Someone grabs his hand, but he feels detached.
He is truly alone, now.