Twenty three candles lit the apartment last night. The soft glow was delightful—the perfect light for a quiet summer evening.

Electric lights are horrible in comparison. Too bright, too steady. I was loathe to open the refrigerator to bring out the chilled soup; the small bulb at the back was so garish. The oven light was so strong in comparison to the candles lighting the kitchen that the metal spatula cast reflections on the walls.

But this morning, I rediscovered at least one reason why our forebears moved away from using candles. Wax on the table. Wax on the railings of the verandah. Cascades of wax down the wall behind the toilet. The little candle lamp is waxed shut. I must clean up the leavings of our light.