The Candle

I watched the woman at my local metaphysical anoint it with oils of patchouli and orange blossom and frankincense, sniffed the herbal Fast Luck mixture she sprinkled over the top, and felt the power in my belly as she rubbed her hands over the glass of that candle, heating the oils and praying, or working a spell. It sounded like both, honestly. And when it was done, I looked at her, and grinned, and said “It smells like optimism.”

I feel it necessary to mention that she did this for free. This wonderful, kind woman who barely knows me, heard my troubles and concerns when I told her what I needed the candle for, and she worked the magic for free, only asking that I pay for the candle and two stones.
And now, the seven day candle sits rather innocuously on my altar, on a black scarf in a triangle of aventurine, tiger’s eye, and bloodstone. It’s been burning for six days now, on and off (I put it out when I leave the house or when I go to sleep, because I have a cat and I’d rather he not topple it and spill hot wax over himself), and it’s working. The wick burns, the flame tall, strong and steady.   A thin layer of wax coats the sides of the glass, glitter sticking to it, and I must admit, unimpressive as the whole setup looks, every time I look over at it I feel this flare of hope, and even though the oils wore off the glass days ago, I catch a little whiff of orange blossom, and I think to myself “It smells like optimism.”


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