The boy lit the candles like his mother asked him. "When is a candle living?"
"What do you mean?" his mother called from the kitchen.
"I mean," started the boy, "when do candles live? Is it living now?"
His mother paused, and walked to him. "Well, sure, yes, the candle is living now."
"But how do you know?"
"Well, what is a candle's purpose?"
He thought for a moment. "To give light."
"Right! Exactly, to give light. And when a thing is carrying out its purpose, it's living its life. So, right now, these two candles are living."
He smiled. But then the smile was gone. "But... they're dying." His mother cocked her head. "Aren't they? They're burning. They'll get shorter and shorter, they'll melt all over the place. And then they'll be all stubbly, and... they won't be anything anymore."
"Well, that's true," she said.
"So weren't they living in the cupboard? All big and whole and not melty?"
"But a life in a cupboard isn't much of a life, is it?" He shook his head. "And if you have something to do while you're here, you should do it, shouldn't you?" He nodded his head. "So, now what do you think?"
He looked at the candles, the flickers against the slowly growing pools of liquid wax. "I just don't know."
The boy left the dining room and went upstairs. The mother watched him go. She turned her attention to the two burning sticks. Suddenly, she didn't have much of an appetite anymore.
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