I imagined diving under all that churning water to look for coins from faraway countries. My feet would be glued to the ground carrying the weight of one of those old-timey, metal spaceman-looking ... [+]
Paula E. Kirman lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada where she is a writer, editor, photographer, filmmaker, musician, and community organizer. Her poetry and songs often deal with themes of social justice. For more: wordspicturesmusic.com "Flames" is in Short Circuit #07, Short Édition's quarterly review.
I would stand as a child and watch my mother light candles on Friday nights. She would close her eyes and whisper words I could not hear in a language I could not understand. I never asked her what she said, only watched the flames glow in the protruding darkness of winter. I never asked her why she stopped, when I was grown, why there were no more flames illuminating the late afternoons on Fridays. I was never asked to light the candles until my mother was gone, my hands trembling as I stumbled through the memorized prayer. Flames are life and death, they are born of action and buried by ti