candlelight for no reason

I've been working on an essay about my dad.  I usually don't write anything autobiographical, but I'm so grateful to the folks at Viking for suggesting it because I got to think about him in a way that I don't often.  Grief teaches you very quickly that if you open the door, it will sit on your couch all day long.  So, my strategy has been to just wave at it from the driveway, when I'm taking out the garbage or see it in the crosswalk; like a pushy neighbor, you must keep your distance.  One thing I remember so clearly about my dad is him lighting candles.  On special occasions like birthdays or Thanksgiving he'd light candles on the table and maybe even some in living room.  I can still see the way his fingers looked opening the matchbook and striking the flint.  Like everything he did, it seemed to hold so much ceremony, so much gravity.  After dinner tonight, E & T used the lovely candle snuffer our friends gave us last year and I thought how much my dad would have liked that gift.