by Stephanie Saldaña

Lighting candles with Carmel,
Barely three years old,
Her fist clutching beeswax tapers.

Flame upon flame, we place them side by side.
Today I will teach her the names
Of those we come to remember.

A candle for my father, who died
Before her first, startled cries. For Paolo,
Disappeared into war. For another who survived,

Perhaps to carry the greater burden.
For the sick. A friend, longing for a child.
The displaced, and those who displaced them.

This lighting candles is dangerous.
Her hair could easily catch fire.
Or the corner of her jacket might singe.

Or even worse, she might become aware
Of the wounded world, that all of us
One day pass on. That I, too, will be a name,

Breathed out among names, on a Tuesday afternoon.
How to explain this to a child?
A child who still marvels at orange slices

And the moon,
For whom everything is always?
She has one candle left. For me, she insists,

Pointing to herself, as though I might mistake her for another.
We light it together. Hold watch as it burns.
Overcome, I pull her towards myself.

My love, you were right after all.
I had almost forgotten. Everything is always.
Otherwise I would not have brought you here.

I promise you, all of this is light.

Stephanie Saldaña grew up in Texas and received a B. A. from Middlebury College and a master’s degree from Harvard Divinity School. She lives at Tantur Ecumenical Institute in Jerusalem with her husband and three children. She is the author of The Bread of Angels: A Journey to Love and Faith, a memoir about her time living in Syria, and A Country Between, about raising a family in Jerusalem.