I have this candle that has tried to define me. It was given to my parents by what I assume was a well-meaning Aunt, as a present (for me) on the day I was born. I think she was my Mother’s Aunt through marriage, or maybe just through time and osmosis. I remember visiting her and discovering she had saved every sticker from every piece of fruit she’d ever eaten, and adhered the stickers to her kitchen cabinets in an interesting “mosaic”. Yet even with this “hobby,” this Aunt found the time to give my parents the hefty, pink, satin-ribboned, “Milestone Marker Birthday Candle”.

If I wasn’t sure I was a “late bloomer” beforehand, staring at my “Milestone Marker Birthday Candle” every year–solidified that for me. This candle, created in the 1950s, has a number line (from 1 – 21 years) featuring pictures next to the years identified as “milestone years”. For example, at the age of 6, I was supposed to ride around on my training-wheel-free bicycle. And at 15, the double-hearts with the arrow running through–could only mean I would find “true love”. And at 18, there’s the graduation cap (self-explanatory). And, of course: at 21, there is … Continue reading..