I was four the first time I tried to touch a flame.
I dragged a chair across the room, climbed up to my mom’s dresser, and reached for the flicker. It stung, but I was too fascinated to cry. Even then, I knew there was something sacred in that glow.

We moved often. Sometimes with little more than an air mattress, a shared plate, and a TV humming in the corner. But there was always a candle. A small flame lit with intention, that made even the barest space feel like home.

Fall was our season. My mom and I would pick out a new candle together, even when money was tight. Red for autumn. Green for winter. The ritual was simple—but it meant everything.

When my uncle died, who was more big brother than uncle to me, we lit a candle in his memory. Every time we missed him, we lit another. And another. Until it became our quiet language of love and longing.

That’s what Lustreaux carries forward:
The idea that scent can hold memory. That a candle can become a tether to peace.