"Merry part," I murmur after replacing the cordless phone back to its receiver. My room is dark, cold. Silent. The white candle I placed by the window earlier flickers unsteadily, its flame reflecting an orange glow across the carpeted floor. Slowly, I rise from the bed and take up a position in the couch by the candle-lit window. Hired bodyguards in black suits constantly traverse the wide front yard below, their movements a steady back and forth, back and forth.
The candle's flame flickers again and I gaze back at it. Every last day of October, I do the same ritual of placing a white candle by the window to celebrate early Halloween. Also, it's one of the many celebrations of Wiccans during Samhain. The light of the candle is meant to guide spirits to their destinations. It's my way to be with my mother who died at childbirth. It's her light to guide her to me.
I tuck my legs under me and I grasp my mother's picture closer. She wore a yellow floral dress and a wide-rimmed straw hat. Behind her was the dark outline of a mountain and a sparkling blue ocean. She was smiling widely at the camera, her dark brown eyes glittering in happiness. My father told me this was taken during their honeymoon in Rio, the day before she dreamed that she was going to conceive a baby girl.
This is the only memory I have of her, the only image I could think of. I don't know how her voice sounded like. I don't know the feel of her touch. Yet at times like this, at times when I need a mother, I always feel a presence around me, enveloping me in a motherly embrace. But it is never enough for me. Something's still missing. I caress the picture gently and I close my eyes.
Mama, I whisper silently in the darkness. I need you tonight more than ever.
When I open my eyes, the candle light flickers once more.