I Feel

I don't want to think about it.
So, instead, I get out the last gift you gave me.
A delicate little menorah.
I load it up with candles and light them all.
Not to communicate with God;
just to watch it burn.
I stare at the candles as they flicker;
as they waste away.
And, afterwards, I stare at the lumps of wax they have become.
This is it, isn't it?
This is what it all becomes.
Ruin
This is what it is to reveal your insides;
to feel,
to be real:
a little pool of wax.
The menorah is marred with the drippings;
the candles gone,
having sacrificed all.
I think about you as I push a new candle into a holder,
pushing through the still soft remains of the one who was before it.
I ball some of the wax between my fingers.
I feel nothing,
loss,
grief,
regret,
anger,
and then nothing again.
Don't you love me?
Am I not worth it?
Foolishness;
useless thoughts;
once formed they burn away,
useful for nothing but covering the very vessel that gives them support.
I begin to scrape the wax off the menorah.
It's no use.
The wax has filled the intricate carvings decorating the piece,
now obscured and scarred.
It, too, ruined for fulfilling its purpose,
for being supportive.
The ruin affects us all.
I focus on the flame of the remaining candle.
My eyes water.
I can't have that.
I blow it out,
whisper amen.