A ritual for grief, memory, and connection.
Some candles are poured to scent a room. This one was poured to hold my big brother’s laugh.
I didn’t make it to say goodbye.
I made it because his voice is still in my ears—loud, wild, and unapologetic. Because I still expect to see his name light up on my phone. Because somewhere in me, I still believe he’s just across town, being his crazy self.
Grief doesn’t care about logic.
Grief is not linear.
Grief makes space feel heavy and time feel undone.
So I did what my hands know how to do when my heart doesn’t: I made a candle.
I called in the old ways—light, scent, memory, ritual.
I poured wax like prayer.
I stirred in smoke, spirit, and song.
And I named it after what I miss most about him: the laugh that still lives in the room, even when he doesn’t.
🕯️ Why I Poured This Candle
The world moves on.
Emails. Bills. Timelines. Meetings.
But I can't.
And maybe I’m not supposed to.
We come from a people who don’t bury grief—they honor it. We come from ancestors who knew that scent could be a portal, fire could be a message, and ritual could be medicine.
So I lit this flame not to forget, but to remember him differently—as presence, not just absence.
This candle is not about closure.
This candle is about connection.
It's a spiritual phone call through flame.
🌿 What I Poured Into It
Every element was chosen with intention, memory, and love:
Sweet tobacco – because that scent was him. Grounding, warm, familiar.
Frankincense – for the ancestors. For spirit. For sacred clarity.
Cedarwood & patchouli – to feel rooted when the grief makes me float.
Orange peel – for the joy he brought into every room.
Mary Jane – not just for the smoke, but the memory. And peace. And love.
Crushed rose petals – because love doesn't die. It just changes form.
As I stirred clockwise, I whispered:
“Derrick, you are known. You are remembered. You are with me.”
I cried. I laughed a little too.
I lit it the next day. And it smelled like him.
Like spirit. Like story. Like home.
✨ The Ritual
This is how I ritualize my grief.
You can make your own version of this ritual for whoever you're missing. But here’s what mine looked like:
Create the space: Picture of him. An old Christmas gift. Song he loved. Something real.
Write his name on a slip of paper. Place it under the candle jar.
Speak as you stir: Say their name. Tell a memory. Cry if you need to.
Pour slowly: Let the wax carry your story.
Light the flame when you’re ready. It might take days. It might take months.
You don’t owe anyone a timeline.
📖 What This Grief Taught Me
This grief has changed me.
Slowed me.
Softened me.
Broke me open in ways I wasn’t ready for.
But it also reminded me of something holy: we don’t lose people like Derrick. We shift the way we love them. From physical to spiritual. From hugs to flame. From calls to silence.
And silence is not absence.
Silence is space.
Silence is where I hear him now.
✨ For You, If You’re Grieving Too
Light the candle.
Say the name.
Don’t rush the healing.
Write letters. Play songs. Laugh when you need to. Cry when you have to.
Let grief move like a tide—not a deadline.
And when you light your candle, just know:
You’re not alone in the dark. There’s always someone else keeping the flame, too.
For me, that flame is Derrick.
And I’ll keep it lit. Always.
In loving memory of my big brother.
In devotion to every Black soul grieving in silence.
You are not forgotten.
You are sacred.
You are held.
