Mahogany pews and pearl-colored tiles,

the ceiling above presents more shadow than light,

with artificial mounds of wax climbing up upon each wooden beam,

gazing down upon the crimson aisle unable to feel its coolness.

With eyes inspecting my every action, my travel to the corner backroom feels heavy.

Heart sinking, thumping in my hands, the shake of a bill.

Sunrays flood the room, the pitcher of warmth ushering my heart onto a spotlight gifted by the 

absence of clouds or storms.

My place secured in the darkness.

Tints of red surround my body like the field of rose bushes,

red roses that now stand wilting tall below a memorial.

The flicker, the flame of life, the representation of a soul,

the movement makes my eyes wander –

the dance of the bodies in the kitchen,

bulbs of the Christmas tree,

the golden rice the moves cycles through dishes and pans,

a blouse that resembled a sunflower’s petals –

yet, they focus on the stem that holds three.

The pull,

the call of Her voice,

the visual of Her,

the soul pulls from His heart.

The bill, so insignificant there is no different feel in my palm when succumbing to the gravity 

holding me planted straight.

But releasing my hold is accepting fate,

accepting the outcome that the world has so harshly given to me, more than me,  

given to the strongest of women.

A reality that leaves me breathless, struggling for air.

With a tremble of fingers,

a breath of deep hope,

and the thought of palms supporting mine,

I let them go.

Three rose buds sprout, three new dances of flames ignite, the weight of reality lighter.

They were meant to be seen,

meant to be present in the spotlight of the hearts they cradled,

meant to flourish in the flame of their own life.

Present in the back corner, real sparks had flown,

life is cherished,

love prospers from candlelight.