A Life Reduced to a Candle Flame

In November 2024, eight months after my father died, the Catholic church in our town offered a memorial mass for the parishioners who had passed that year to honor their memory...

In November 2024, eight months after my father died, the Catholic church in our town offered a memorial mass for the parishioners who had passed that year to honor their memory. It was held on election night. Even though my father didn’t vote regularly until his later years, he was always very political. That irony wasn’t lost on me.

While I’m not the most religious person, that church still holds much significance for me as it marked some of the defining moments of my life. It’s the church that shared the grounds with the now defunct Catholic school I attended from kindergarten through the eighth grade. It’s where I made all my sacraments, unwittingly being ushered into the Catholic faith. In this church, I sang carols in the student choir for the Christmas Eve mass, and the children would also recreate the nativity. The year I was chosen to play the part of Mary was one of the highlights of my young life.

My father loved watching me sing and would boisterously belt out some of those carols out of the blue, forty years later, at the most random of times. I was married in this church. My father glowed with pride as he walked me proudly down the aisle as the notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D enveloped us like warm raindrops, our arms locked together in love. This church was also where family members and friends were honored after their passing through remembrance of happier times and mourning the loss of their earthly presence. Now, this was the church where I would be reminded that my father was gone.

Photo by Ujjwal Chettri on Unsplash

As I arrived at the mass, I immediately experienced a sense of dread, as once again, the realization that my father was no longer anywhere on this planet cut me to my core. I scanned the people in attendance. Some appeared unfazed about the gravity of the evening mass, laughing and talking as if they were speaking about the latest episode of their favorite television series, while others were tearful, nestled in the arms of those who accompanied them. I was somewhere between the halfway point of levity and misery.

To the left of my pew, rows of pillar candles were lined up in alphabetical order, each inscribed with the name of the deceased person that was being honored which would later be offered as a tribute to those in attendance. As the mass commenced, I gazed intently at the glowing candles, the essence of each recollected spirit encased in a radiant flame.

I couldn’t help but think that the entirety of my father, his quirky jokester personality, his ceaseless love for life and family, his obsession with the racetrack and the craps table, all of his moments on this planet from the day he was born until the time he took his last breath, were now reduced to that of a candle flame, flickering amid a throng of others who have gone before.

Suddenly, my brain was submerged with questions I never even thought to ask my father while he was alive, but now seemed of the utmost importance. Things such as how old he was when he had his first beer, when was the first time he flew on an airplane, or if there was anything in his life he wished he would’ve done differently, now held incredible significance to me because I knew that I could never get that answer.

Photo by Juan Domenech on Unsplash

To be honest, it never dawned on me to ask certain things as they didn’t seem too important at the time. We were busy living our lives together and making beautiful memories in the moment, but now, I recognize there was so much I didn’t realize about my father. I want to know every detail about him, like why he had such a fascination with crossword puzzles, and if he had a favorite animal.

Things that are seemingly meaningless are now burning a hole through my brain. At this point, it’s too late. I ran out of time the day he vanished from the planet. As I stared at his dancing candle flame, I tried to accept the fact that I missed my chance to ask him every question about what made him who he was.

I always viewed my father as a very remarkable man. His approach to life, the way he conducted himself with both strength and kindness, his ability to handle any obstacle that came his way, and his ceaseless appetite for adventure, were always things I wanted to emulate. Things that appeared to come so easy to him I would often find myself struggling with. I admired the person he was and wanted to be more like him. He was my hero, and countless times, when confronted with challenging circumstances in my life, I would always turn to my father for help or ponder how he would handle the situation. He was the calm in my crazy, never judgmental or critical, and always had my back. Now, all of that is just a memory glistening in a candle flame.

Although I crave my father’s human presence, continually guiding and loving me, I’m grateful for the fifty years I was fortunate to be his daughter. I’m thankful for the candle I was gifted in his honor. It reminds me of how brightly he shined in his life, lighting the path for me, as well as those he loved, and the cheerfulness and optimism he so freely shared with others. So, while through the eyes of mourning I feel as if his life was reduced to a candle flame, within my heart, that glow is a reminder of all the radiance he shared with the world.