Dynamite

I have had a tiny stick of dynamite inside of me for so long

I couldn’t remember even if I tried.

It was implanted before long-term memory developed.

I guess I should be thankful, right?

But the butterflies you all feel sometimes;

I feel all the time.

Always a bit worried,

a bit frightened.

Always a bit shaky.

And it sits there surrounded by candles to light my way.

Some are fragrant.

Some are colorful.

Some are small but shine so brightly

with flames that refuse to go out.

Some have burned down to the end of the wick.

But I seem to add a very tiny new candle for every year I am still here.

But I thank God I have those candles,

But I also wondered if they would conspire with the murderous interloper.

So far, so good.