by Maddison Sellers
Every night my mother asks me to light a candle
So the room is golden she says
So the light is soft she says, turning off the lamp
Then I reach for a thin white candle, the matches too
And cut the wick a little shorter because
My mother told me to do that each time she lit one when I was a child
Then when I strike the match, I wonder
If I look like my mother when I would watch her as a child
I wonder how I seem, and what my mother thinks
When she sees me doing something she once did for me
Maddison Sellers is a reader and writer from rainy Washington State where she lives in a little apartment filled with books. She reads for the Chestnut Review, the Chariot Press, and is the graphic designer for the Cloudscent Journal. Her work can be found in Trillium, the Unconventional Courier, and On-The-High Literary Journal. When not reading or writing, she spends her time browsing bookstores and journaling. You can find her on Twitter at @maddi_sellers.