Melting the Years

From ages one to twenty-one,
I knew my birthday had begun
When from its box, my mom would lift
My special candle, once a gift.

A cylinder of painted wax
It was, like certain artifacts,
A remnant of another age,
Which measured growth from stage to stage.

Each year was printed with a line,
With swirls of colorful design,
And on my birthday, with acclaim,
My mother’d proudly light the flame.

It took some hours ‘til it hit
The line below, then that was it.
I blew it out and it was clear
It would stay hidden for a year.

That ritual was never missed.
Its magic I could not resist;
For as that wick would start to smolder,
That was proof I’d gotten older.

All that happened long ago
Yet with living’s ebb and flow,
Birthdays link us to the past
And like candles, they don’t last.

Still today I see that girl,
Birthday crowned, with skirts a’twirl,
And I know just how she felt
As that candle’d start to melt.