Page 116 of Mountain Pine
Bear Creek is so lucky.
When Taylor comes back inside, she’s got candles, a plate, twine, and some other shit. She sets itall up at the kitchen table and by the time we’re ready to light the candles, my palms are sweaty. This is kind of intimidating.
“Are you okay, Con?”
“Yeah.” Except my heart is thudding in my throat and I don’t like it.
“Conner, look at me.” She cups my face. “This is just a spiritual representation of you severing ties with someone else. No harm comes to them or you.”
“Okay. Good.” I don’t want bad things to happen to my parents; I just want to breathe without them suffocating my thoughts anymore.
“Write their names on this this.” She slides a scrap of paper that I recognize from the notepad she keeps on her counter in the shop. It feels weird writing on something so basic for what feels like something very meaningful to me.
Once I do, I slide it back to her.
It’s all so…simple. A plate. Salt. Herbs. Twine. Cinnamon.
I’m not asking about how it all works together. I think the less I know, the better.
But she tells me to be mindful and have a clear visual of what I want. Who the candles represent. And then she ties twine around the candle that is mine, to the one that represents my father. And a second one from mine to the one that represents my mother.
I’m nervous. For someone who claims to not believe in this stuff, it sure feels like I’m about to fuck around and find out.
She lights the one that is me first. Then the other two.
I hold my breath and grab Taylor’s hand.
The three candles burn at different speeds. Mine is the slowest.
“You’re strong,” she whispers, squeezing my hand.
My mother’s candle burns the fastest, her wax melting but never dripping all the way down the length of the candle.
“Fake tears,” Taylor says, pointing at it.
I swallow hard, getting mesmerized by it all. The twine tying me to my mom catches on fire and breaks so easily, it’s underwhelming. Then again, if this is a representation of our relationship it’s also painfully accurate.
My father’s candle and the cord tying us together takes much longer. While my mother’s burns all by itself, steady and fast, my father’s candle seems stubborn.
Imagine that.
I hold my breath, wishing for that cord to set fire. Wishing it would burn, and his candle would bend over and melt away from mine.
The cord eventually catches. Then extinguishes.
I sink down into a chair and watch intently.
I don’t ever want you near me again, I think.I’m so much better off without you.
His candle bends. The cord catches fire again. Mine doesn’t waver. The wax melts but holds its shape.
Iamstrong, damnit. I built a beautiful life for myself. Became independent and also turned into someone people can rely on. I’m a good friend. A good man. I’ll be a good husband.
I’m nothing like my father and I’m not what he claims I am.
The fire trails across the plate, the cord crackling as it burns. Dad’s candle pitches to the side more, andI’m scared it’s going to bump into mine.
It feels like he’s reaching for me. Stubborn and selfish as ever.
