Every time my parents left me home alone,

I knew where it was hidden and headed right for it as soon

As they closed the garage.

In the corner of the dining room,

behind the chest, inside the long box, in a white bag.

I’d note the way each container faced,

The way each flap folded closed

So that I could cover my tracks.

I’d remove the gentle cloud tissues to exhume

the white candle whose creation our family watched several summers earlier.

Dipped in a rainbow of colors over and over,

It looked like the rings of a tree when the artist cut into it,

Carving the wax deftly,

Slicing into its skin and folding it back

To unearth the network of purple veins along a flower stem,

A swan,

A butterfly,

That had all been hiding inside, eager to be revealed.

The candlemaker drew the beauty out into the open.

When I feared hearing the garage door,

I would hide the beauty away

In a box inside a box inside a box

That’s where beauty was supposed to go.

And I’d lie in bed at night after they’d gotten home—

The phantom garage door panic having robbed me of an hour longer

In its fragile presence—

And my fingertips tried to recall the smooth ribbons of color woven

Into one another like a present’s bow

That is never undone,

Never untied to bring to light what lies within.