Clear orbs of light from the natural beeswax tapers flicker in the dark of the room, the flames dancing and forcing the shadows to write along the walls and the corner that the table is set against.  It is as if this shrine, this holy space to my ancestors and dead, was a sentinel in that darkness, guarding and bolstering against it even if it is, in reality, simply in one spare bedroom of my apartment overlooking a busy road in Rhode Island. I always offer sacrifice and prayers at night, at least on holidays that are in observance to the Infernal Gods and the Dead. My space is adorned with memories and offerings: images of the dead, flowers (violets, to be precise, if…