It said happy birthday to the husband she loved
She placed it onto the table admiring her handy work
He liked the color red and the flavor of vanilla
She went to a drawer and found the perfect candles
The thin stripped candles that were red all over
Slowly she opened the pack
And sat at the table across from an empty chair
Placing each candle precisely
A slow task it was to place thirty candles
Her hands shook uncontrollable
She noted this was common for old age
She then lit the candles one by one
She sat and stared, never averting her gaze
The candles began to melt
As they melted, they waited
For the wind that would never come to blow them out
They melted into puddles
The puddles covered the cake
Every inch of vanilla frosting covered in a deep red
Covered until the red words could no longer be seen
Finally the candles went out
Smothered by their own wax
The wax hardening across the icing
She wondered who would light the candles when she was gone
Who would remember his name
Who would remember what he loved
Thirty years had gone by
Since the day people began to forget who he was
And she knew that one day soon he would be lost to history
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