Sitting on the front porch swing, sipping a glass of white wine as the sky darkens. A crispness to the air on this early November evening.

Across the street at the Methodist church, a lone figure is setting out paper bag luminaries along the sidewalk, preparing for some kind of ceremony.

A wedding? A funeral?

The ritual and the wine warm me. And as the man moves down the neighborhood block, it strikes me that we are all setting out our little lanterns these days – we light a spark in the direction of some sort of hope, to keep up our positive energy, to keep going.

And we watch and wait.

From our darkened porches and near-empty houses, we wait.

The row of white paper bags line up crisply, in a direction not always mapped out. Whether it is an ending or a beginning, it’s often uncertain, not always so clear.

My son turned 29 yesterday, on Halloween. At our small gathering, I was a tiny bit misty, and wandered around in the backyard, carrying the photo album, sidling up to people to point out the pictures of his birth.

I know, I’m that mom.

Anyway – no one was nearly as interested as I’d hoped – but for me it was all in the details. Those tiny remembrances that, if left unacknowledged, would go missing.

Like the fact that he was a scary shade of blue when he came into the world. Or that he had a golden halo of fuzz around his soft, perfectly-shaped head. Or the way he felt so light, but also solid. And how he radiated confidence from the very beginning.

The memories are mine to kindle. My little candle in the paper bag.

The memories are mine to kindle. My little candle in the paper bag.

And tonight I set them out there on my little patch of front yard, to say, this is the light, this is the goodness in the world.

And so, block by block, along the cracked sidewalk, I imagine striking another match to a candle in the neighborhood procession – the birth memory, a poem, a love letter, a kiss – just a small yes, in reply to the darkness that is so hard to see beyond.