wick

Oh, the allure of the flame, dancing there seemingly suspended above the wick. How enticing to slice my finger through that miniature blaze, how mystifying to recognize its multitude of colors, its fragility in the breeze, its power to mesmerize.

How does the wick stay so steady, so resolute in purpose -in burning? The flame gets all the attention, but the wick? A silent partner, the less-engaging sibling, a martyr? "Quit your fooling around and just get to the business of burning, you flickering nitwit,'" the wick scolds, perhaps. "Wax is a-wasting!!!"

Who thought of them, anyway? And where are wick factories? Who is the president of wicks? Who names her yacht after the family business - Burn One Down or Vital or Burning Man? Why are they called wicks?

Answers or no, wicks, I'm grateful for you. You sustain something that gives me immeasurable pleasure - candle-light - in which we all look more beautiful. And, I know there's a metaphor in this somewhere...about you and a purpose-driven life...but for now, please simply bask in the glow of my admiration.