Tin Can

In a tin can
is a candle,
a candle with a wick.

The wick is still white
because this particular candle inside this can
has never been lit.

This tin can, you see,
is far from new or shiny.
That is what makes this candle unique —
its age,
and the story it holds.

The lid has rust along the edges,
and the decorative flowers that once were bright
have faded into faint greens and pinks.
There are dents and dings along the sides.

Yes, it’s been used —
picked up a thousand times —
but never burned once.
Only opened
to smell what’s inside.

The reason I tell you about this tin can
is because, just today,
it rolled right out of my suitcase
as I unpacked to begin my life far, far away.

I picked up the familiar container
as I stood in the hot California sand,
and I peeled off that bent-up lid
from that rusty old can.

I put my nose to the wax,
just as I have always done,
and for the first time since leaving Indiana,
I felt like I was home again.

I could hear my Grandma’s voice
yelling from down the hall,
“It’s time to wake up!”
It’s time to do nothing at all —

except bake cookies and talk,
share love and prayers,
drive down to the general store,
listen to records,
or take a walk in the morning dew.

I yanked the tin can away from my face,
looking down at it with bittersweet pain.
A tear fell, and yet
I lifted it again,
inhaling the aroma of warm, spicy cinnamon.

I could feel the crackling fire warm me
and see the snow falling during the holidays.
I could hear my childhood voice on the telephone,
asking if I could come and stay.

I could see the golden maple leaves falling
as she strolled slowly down her lane,
waving a greeting to me
as I pulled in
to take her out to dinner.

This tin can, beat up and worn,
sat on her table for nearly thirty years,
waiting for every visit
when I would walk by,
open its lid,
and take a long sigh.

Now again, I take a deep whiff
of that familiar smell —
of happiness and love,
the aroma of my Grandma’s goodwill.

I hold this rusty tin can
in a place far, far away
and recall the words
my Grandma used to say:

“You’ll have it when I’m gone.
And when the flowers fade,
just take off the lid
and lift it to your face.
And no matter where you stand,
it will take you
to a happy place.”

— Grace Ellen Lawrence

August 2, 2021