Count the candles, feel the heat. That portion of excess bound to a paper plate. That diligence of wishes given way to smoke and sweetness. A tide of fire extinguished, smoke curling into a haze of fitful tradition. Such a measure, such a moment. Plastic forks lining the trash-can. Blue frosting smearing the sink.
It is the ritual we name, but the sweetness we need. All these muttered grievances, all these longed for treats. The hours of repetition, the blunt language, the idle threats. Time cards signed in pure frustration, checks cashed in needy resentment. These little parties to delay the inevitable. These petty indulgences to make up for lapsed sin.
There are always disappointments. There are always days that will let us down. The calendar marks our dreams for tomorrow. The bright light longed for, the journey at last underway. We take these small offerings, these silly substitutions. We reach for our share of the pie, hoping it will be a piece of cake. Something sweet and easy, a moment we can taste.
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