The wind blows out the candles and kindles fire

Two bright red candles burn in the fireplace. They burn like a need to reflect. Traffic smokes past, computer systems jam, glass breaks, and people promised love are killed by the hour. The candle holders were a gift. They were a gift from a friend who obviously knew a thing or two about reflection. They are tall and gallant like friendship and made of pewter. From where I sit the two flames pierce the gloaming like cat’s eyes, and in the corner of the room to the right is the artist with a glass of wine in her hand. (For some reason her shadow is moving more than her body.) On the sofa meanwhile is our son and he is watching his sister stand too close to the candles with her long hair in her mouth and a plaster on her knee. I watch as my daughter, unprompted, moves out of harm’s way. It is late and I enjoy these moments of reflection. I am also thinking we have pretty much forgotten as a culture how to reflect well. Sadly, I think we imagine we no longer have time. A central premise for art I always thought was reflection. Maybe the solution lies there. Anyway, the artist’s sister has come to stay for the night again and I am watching the scene like a movie, or piece of art, as she sits with us and talks. Above the fireplace is a small ink drawing of a mother and child, and tiny rose petals form the illusion of a frame. I like it when the light is low like this in this room. It reminds me of being young again and pretending to understand. (No change there.) On the crammed bookcase are nine tea-lights. They, too, are burning and flickering like golden white ghosts. I place a mint in my mouth and continue writing. Not that I've been burning the candle at both ends this time, but I've miles to go before I sleep.