One Thanksgiving dinner, I discovered the rubber ducks on the table could work as squirt guns. I used one to squirt out a candle near my grandpa. He quietly tried relighting it, but the matches and lighter failed. With a sigh, he left the table. We assumed he went to the bathroom, but he didn’t come back for a long time.

At first, nobody noticed. The turkey was perfect. Aunt Linda had brought her green bean casserole, and my little cousin Miri was too busy sneaking marshmallows off the sweet potatoes to care where Grandpa had gone. But after twenty minutes, Mom glanced toward the hallway and frowned.

“Did Dad go out to the garage?” she asked.

Uncle Ronnie shrugged, mouth full. “Maybe he’s airing out.”

“From what?” Grandma asked, sipping wine. “The duck attack?”

I laughed, but guilt began creeping up. Maybe Grandpa was mad. He’d looked at the candle like it meant something.

“I’ll go check,” I offered, sliding out of my chair.

I walked down the hallway, expecting to hear the usual noises—Grandpa humming, fiddling in the shed, or maybe talking to himself about football. Instead, I heard nothing.

I peeked in the bathroom. Empty. The den? No one. I passed by Grandpa’s office and noticed the light under the door was on.

“Grandpa?” I knocked.

No answer.

I pushed open the door and found him sitting on the floor, cross-legged, holding something in his lap. The room smelled like cinnamon and faintly like old cigars.

“Hey,” I said softly. “You okay?”

He looked up, startled. “Oh. Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He was holding an old photo album. Not the usual kind with birthdays and beach trips. This one was thick, dusty, and looked handmade.

“What’s that?” I asked, stepping in.

He patted the carpet next to him, so I sat.

“This,” he said, flipping a page, “is what I come back to every Thanksgiving. When I can’t light that candle.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He paused, rubbing his thumb over a photo. It was black and white, with a boy in overalls and a dog beside him.

“That candle,” he said, “belonged to your Uncle Paul.”

I blinked. “Uncle Paul? I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Most people don’t,” Grandpa said. “He died when I was sixteen.”

I swallowed hard. Grandpa never talked about this.

“It happened on Thanksgiving,” he continued, voice quieter. “We went out behind the barn to toss a football. It was cold. I told him to run wide, and he slipped on some frost near the edge of the creek.”

He looked away for a moment. “He hit his head. We didn’t find him until after dinner. My dad never forgave me.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“He was only twelve,” Grandpa added.

We sat in silence, and I understood why he’d been so still at dinner, why that candle had mattered. It wasn’t just for ambiance. It was a memory. A quiet vigil.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He smiled, a little. “You didn’t know. Nobody your age does. I tried keeping it light over the years, but that candle… it always reminds me.”

Then he did something unexpected. He laughed.

“That duck stunt was pretty good, though,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

I grinned, relieved. “So… you’re not mad?”

“Of course not,” he said. “But maybe next time, aim for Uncle Ronnie.”

We sat a little longer, and he told me more about Paul. How he loved science fiction and frogs. How he wanted to be an astronaut. Things I never knew.

Later, when we rejoined the table, no one asked questions. Grandpa quietly placed the candle back where it had been, though it remained unlit.

That moment stuck with me.

Years passed. Grandpa grew slower, quieter. The Thanksgiving duck incident became family lore, but no one brought up Paul again. Not until Grandpa passed away.

He died in his sleep, the week before Thanksgiving. Peaceful. No pain.

We were devastated. Especially Grandma, who had been with him since high school. The house felt hollow that year.

I was twenty-three then, home from college, and everything felt different. Thanksgiving was a potluck at Aunt Linda’s. The table had no rubber ducks. No candle.

That hit me hardest.

I found the album later, tucked in the back of Grandpa’s office. The same one we sat with that night. I brought it to dinner.

“Hey,” I said, holding it up, “can we look at this together?”

Everyone gathered around, some hesitantly. But as we flipped the pages, something shifted. My mom began telling stories Grandpa used to tell her. Grandma shared how Paul once tied a chicken to a wagon and called it his ‘turbo horse.’

Even Uncle Ronnie got teary-eyed.

Then we noticed something wedged in the back pocket of the album. A letter, sealed with wax.

I held it up. “Should we… open it?”

Grandma nodded, lips trembling.

Inside was a short note, in Grandpa’s handwriting.

If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer around to light the candle for Paul. But don’t let the tradition die. Light it for anyone you’ve loved and lost. And maybe, once in a while, squirt a duck at someone you care about. Life’s too short not to laugh. Love, Dad / Grandpa / Walter.

That night, we lit the candle. And we laughed.

Something changed in me after that. I started noticing how people held on to things. Quiet griefs. Traditions nobody explained. It made me softer. More curious.

A year later, on Thanksgiving morning, I visited the cemetery with a candle in my coat pocket. I didn’t even tell anyone. I just lit it by Grandpa’s headstone and whispered, “For you and Paul.”

Then I did something silly.

I pulled a tiny rubber duck from my bag, filled it with water, and squirted the candle out.

I swear I heard a chuckle in the breeze.

That should’ve been the end, but life had another turn waiting.

The next week, I received a letter from a man named Marvin, claiming to be Paul’s childhood friend. He had read Grandpa’s obituary and reached out, saying he’d written to Grandpa every year on Thanksgiving for decades.

“I don’t know if he ever got them,” the letter said. “But I kept writing. Paul was my best friend.”

Marvin included copies of the letters. Inside were stories, doodles, and once, a pressed leaf from a place they used to explore together.

I was stunned.

Marvin had no family of his own. He lived two towns over. I visited him.

He was in his eighties, sharp as a tack, with a gentle way of speaking.

“I always felt guilty,” he confessed. “Paul and I had made a plan to run away. Just a childhood thing. But I backed out last minute. He was upset. And then… well. I never got to say sorry.”

I told him about the candle, the duck, and the album. He cried.

From then on, Marvin became part of our Thanksgivings.

He brought new energy. New stories. One year, he even brought old comics Paul had drawn. We made copies, laminated them, and put them on the table as placemats.

By then, the candle was tradition again. But now, it stood for more than Paul. It stood for Grandpa. For memory. For the strange, loving ways we keep people alive.

The twist, the real twist, came the year Marvin passed away.

He left a letter for me. In it was something unexpected: a check for $5,000 and a note.

Use this to start something with heart. Something your grandpa and Paul would’ve laughed at. And don’t forget the ducks.

I had no idea what to do with that. Not at first.

But then, a simple idea came. I started a little nonprofit called The Candle Project.

We send memory kits to families grieving someone, especially around the holidays. Each kit includes:

A candle.
A small photo album.
A letter template.
And yes… a rubber duck.

The duck became our signature.

People loved it.

Some used the ducks for laughs. Others kept them near urns or photos. Some even sent us videos of grandparents, like mine, laughing through tears.

We’ve now sent over 10,000 kits in five years.

And every Thanksgiving, we still light the candle at our table. Someone always squashes it with a duck. It’s tradition now. Laughter and memory, hand in hand.

That Thanksgiving when I squirted out the candle started as a silly moment. I had no idea it would open a door into my family’s past, heal wounds we didn’t speak about, and spark something bigger than all of us.

Sometimes, the things we mess up lead to the most meaningful memories. Sometimes, the candle that won’t light leads you to someone who really needed a flame.

So if you’re missing someone this holiday, light a candle. Tell a story. And if you’ve got a rubber duck… well, you know what to do.

Life lesson? Grief and joy can sit at the same table. And sometimes the best way to honor the past is to laugh loud enough for the ones who can’t anymore.

If this story touched you, give it a like and share it with someone you love. Maybe bring a rubber duck to dinner this year—you never know what memories it might unlock.