This Is What He Remembers

I didn’t always have stillness.

I didn’t always have wax.

But I always had him.

Seventeen years ago, I packed up my life in St. Louis and moved to Dallas—just me and my son. No blueprint. Just belief. A mother determined to create something more. I worked long hours. I was laid off during the recession. I went through things no one knew. And still, I kept going.

Because he was watching.

I didn’t start pouring candles until years later. By then, he was already a man—playing basketball overseas, living the dream we both worked for.

But the wax knew.

It carried the memory. Of every night I stayed up, every moment I held it together, every dream I whispered when the world felt too heavy.

And yesterday, he brought me roses. Not because it’s Mother’s Day— But because he remembers.

The woman who raised him alone. The woman who never let go. The woman who now pours light into the world, the same way she once poured everything into him.

This is what he remembers.

And the wax?

It always did.