Chapter 10 - The Second Candle
One year later.
March in central Pennsylvania had decided to arrive early, skipping the sleet and the gray mud for an unseasonal seventy-degree afternoon that had brought the daffodils shooting through the flowerbeds along Elm Street two weeks ahead of schedule.
The backyard of our brick bungalow was filled with the sound of acoustic guitar music drifting from the Bluetooth speaker mounted on the garage eaves.
Nate had set up two long cedar picnic tables on the lawn, covered in simple yellow gingham tablecloths weighed down with mason jars filled with fresh clover and wild violets that Megan had spent the morning picking in the alleyway.
There were twenty people in the yard.
Nate's parents had driven in from Altoona, bringing a massive wooden rocking horse Nate’s father had spent three months carving from local cherry wood. My colleagues from the transportation department were clustered around the charcoal grill, laughing as Nate demonstrated his secret dry-rub technique for smoked chicken thighs.
Sitting on a folding lawn chair beneath the blooming dogwood tree was Aunt Brenda, wearing a bright turquoise cardigan, holding a three-month-old infant belonging to our neighbor Sarah, rocking the baby with the effortless rhythm of an expert.
In the center of the lawn, wearing a white cotton sundress and her hand-knit ivy-patterned cardigan, stood two-year-old Megan.
She was running in wild, erratic circles through the clover, chasing a stray yellow butterfly with a plastic sand bucket, her curls bouncing around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with pure, untamed toddler ecstasy.
Every few seconds, she would stop, look back over her shoulder to make sure Nate and I were watching, flash us a brilliant, gap-toothed grin, and take off running again, shouting:
"Look, Daddy! The flying flower! Look at me!"
"I see you, Meggie!" Nate called out from the grill, waving his metal tongs in the air with a wide, triumphant grin. "Keep your eyes on the grass, speedy!"
I walked through the back kitchen door carrying a large, white porcelain cake platter.
On the platter sat a round, two-tiered lemon sponge cake, frosted with thick, swirling clouds of vanilla buttercream, decorated with fresh yellow raspberries and candied mint leaves. Across the top, written in sweeping, dark-green script, was a single word:
MEGAN
Beside it sat two tall, golden beeswax candles, their wicks trimmed and ready for the match.
The yard went quiet as I set the platter down on the center of the picnic table.
Not the tense, suffocating silence of that terrible afternoon two years ago; but the warm, reverent stillness of people who loved each other gathering around a shared hearth.
Nate set down his tongs, wiped his hands on his apron, and walked over to stand behind me, his arms slipping around my waist, his chin resting comfortably on the crown of my head.
"She’s ready, Kim," Nate whispered into my ear.
"Come here, birthday girl!" I called out across the lawn.
Megan dropped her bucket in the grass, spun around on her little red sneakers, and sprinted across the yard, launching herself straight into my legs with enough momentum to make me catch the edge of the table for balance.
I scooped her up into my arms, settling her against my hip, feeling the heat of her skin, the sweet scent of clover and sunshine in her hair.
Aunt Brenda walked over, holding a wooden kitchen match. She struck it against the side of the box, the flame flaring orange against the bright afternoon light, and touched the wick of the two golden candles.
The twin flames bloomed into life, flickering gently in the spring breeze.
The crowd gathered around the table—Nate’s mother, his father, our neighbors, our friends—their voices rising together in that familiar, unpolished, beautiful chorus that had belonged to human beings celebrating their children for a thousand years:
“Happy birthday to you... happy birthday to you... happy birthday, dear Megan... happy birthday to you!”
Megan stared at the two flames, her wide eyes reflecting the twin points of golden light.
She didn't look toward the gate. She didn't look around the yard to see if someone was coming down the driveway to push her plate aside. She didn't look for an aunt who had tried to steal her joy, or a grandmother who had weighed her worth against an old invoice and found her wanting.
She looked at the cake. She looked at her name written in the sugar.
Then she looked up at me, her small hand reaching out to touch my cheek, her little fingers warm and sticky with clover juice.
"Make a wish, sweetheart," I whispered against her forehead, my voice thick with tears that had nothing to do with sorrow. "Make a wish for your whole life."
Megan took a deep, shuddering breath, puffing out her chest like a tiny songbird, leaned forward over the table, and blew with all the strength in her two-year-old lungs.
The smoke curled upward into the clear blue Pennsylvania sky, carrying the sweet scent of beeswax and vanilla into the branches of the dogwood tree, scattering into the clean, open air where nobody could ever reach it again.
The yard erupted into cheers, clapping, and laughter.
Nate leaned down, his lips brushing my temple, his hand covering Megan’s back as she buried her face in my neck, giggling with pure, untethered delight.
I looked out over the fence, past the small brick houses of Elm Street, toward the distant green ridges rising against the horizon.
The table was set.
May you like
The candles were out.
And every single crumb belonged to us.
