The Nightly Ritual

Every night, before the world goes quiet, I find myself standing in front of my father’s urn. His ashes rest beneath the soft glow of a Virgen de Guadalupe candle — a flame I keep alive as if it were his heartbeat. That candle is never extinguished unless I’m forced to leave the house, and even then, I whisper an apology before turning it off. I tell him we’ll be back soon, as if he were waiting for me to return.

I speak to him like I always did when he was alive, except now the silence that follows is heavier. I imagine he’s still listening, still able to give me the kind of advice only he could give — blunt when it needed to be, gentle when I was breaking. My words spill out in fragments, sometimes prayers, sometimes confessions, sometimes just the kind of small talk you’d give to a friend sitting at the kitchen table.

It’s strange how the ritual gives me a kind of peace. Maybe it’s the candlelight, maybe it’s the act of speaking his name aloud, or maybe it’s the hope — fragile but persistent — that he’s watching over me. That somehow, in whatever space exists beyond this one, he still knows when I’m struggling and finds a way to guide me.

Today, that hope feels heavier in my chest. I have the second round of a job interview, and I can’t help but think I’ll need him more than usual. I’ll need his steady presence, the way he could make my worries feel smaller just by standing next to me. So tonight, before I leave, I’ll light the candle again, I’ll speak to him, and I’ll ask him to stay with me — to make sure I don’t face the day alone.