I hated vanilla candles, but it had nothing to do with their sickly-sweet smell that drifted into my bedroom and suffocated me in my sleep. As soon as the candied aroma made its way onto my consciousness, I knew what was coming. Mom was writing again.

Once every couple of months, my mother would lock herself in her bedroom, put Frank Sinatra on a low volume on the speaker system, and continue to pull her hair out behind closed doors. Vanilla candles were a constant part of the ritual, although their magic never seemed work the way she anticipated. The intense writing period would end with her emerging from her sanctuary in sweatpants and devoid of energy, before telling me “it wasn’t the right time” and heading out onto the porch for a cigarette.

Back when I was younger and Mom enjoyed telling me stories, a smile would penetrate her hardened features as she described her days as a freelance journalist in vivid detail; taking the train from one shady motel to the next, chasing her lead all the way to the closest bar. That’s where she met my Dad, and according to Mom, they were drawn to each other like “whisky and bad decisions.” However, one day reality set in and she realized that blatant chemistry with a man didn’t equal a relationship. She broke up with my Dad (they never found the time to get married), quit her job, and moved into a boring brick split-level to raise her child and live a life full of regrets. She never actually said so, but I could always tell.

She wrote textbooks, and hated every minute of it. Despised the way the facts bled from her brain and onto the page; that meaningless work that anybody could do. She didn’t burn vanilla when she was typing about the French Revolution with heavy fingers. I knew it pained her everyday that she couldn’t pour her passion into anything, but I also knew that there wasn’t much passion left in her life at all.

Usually, those intense writing sessions led to nothing but frustration and a few days’ silence, but occasionally Mom spun one or two lines of figurative language and emerged with a small victory. She was most beautiful at those moments, when the fading fire began to glow again. It would only last for a day or two. Once the time passed, she realized she was heading nowhere and descended back into the dark. She was far more comfortable there, anyway.
The day she stopped writing was a strange one. I was trying to ignore the scent of her candles and focus on the book before me. I knew the cycle would repeat itself despite how dry her pens were.
I didn’t even notice that she was standing before me until she cleared her throat.
Looking up, I saw not the woman that my mother is but the woman that she was-the fearless journalist who lived life on the edge and never looked back once the sun set. Her hair was loose around her face, and she wore a silky, cream colored dress that may have been slightly inappropriate for her age but gave her that youthful flush of a woman much younger (anything was better than the sweatpants, anyway).
“I’ve given up,” she announced, and we both became silent. I was taken aback. She didn’t elaborate; it wasn’t really her style. I knew there wouldn’t be any emotional confession. She pinched the fragile skirt, and I was reminded of some old photograph I had seen a long time ago.
Despite the fact that she had apparently just threw away her dreams, her face seemed serene and as crease-free as the frock she donned. Maybe she had finally realized that the dress pinched her in some places and didn’t suit her lifestyle anymore. Perhaps she had chosen to tuck it away in a box and leave it there, finally acknowledging it as a part of her past that didn’t deserve to keep being worn out for the present.

She never apologized, but maybe it was there: tucked between the folds of silk and those crumpled pieces of paper. “I never really liked vanilla candles, anyway.”