Writing Assign. #2

A Candle...or Two

I love candles.  I have them in every room of my house, even my oldest daughter’s bedroom.  At least I did, until she packed them up and took them off to college with her. And presently, my pantry and linen closets are stocked with replacements, just waiting for their turn to light up a room.   What’s important to note, however, is that all of my candles are scent-less.  They have to be; I can’t tolerate them otherwise. Those overly perfumed blends of linen, or gardenia, or vanilla just make me nauseous.  Secondly, my candles are all white.  So they will go with everything.  And boom!  In a matter of a few sentences, you get a glimpse of the inner-workings of my personality.  Practical, structured, dare I say rigid?  God no, that sounds horrid!  But, in my defense, WHO  lights candles in the middle of the day?  It’s 12:19, for heaven’s sake. That’s just plain wasteful. I’m not looking for ambience at this hour.  I’m not looking for calm.  I’m trying to get things done, like laundry and writing assignments.  However, to prove to myself that I can splurge a bit, that I can be a rebel, a rule-breaker, I lit one.  Make that two; I was feeling crazy!   And one of them is even brown!  A brown one that had been long forgotten. Hidden on the floor of the pantry behind plastic grocery bags,  the dusty crock pot, and rolls of paper towels.  Lord knows how long it’s been sitting there collecting dust.  And just like that, in the middle of the day, I lit them!  With the little, red Bic-lighter I found wedged in the sofa cushions this summer after an out-of-town trip that left my nineteen-year-old in charge.  But it was all I could find at the moment.  The clicker is out of fuel and the matches that I was supposed to buy at the grocery store this morning, were somehow forgotten despite the numerous times I checked and double-checked my list.  And now they are burning, both of them, just like they’re supposed to.  My little glass-encased white one is going strong, just like I knew she would.  The wax is melting evenly, on all sides, the yellow flame flickering wildly in every direction.  So wild, that I feel compelled to look around for an open window, anything that would cause such spastic movement.  Her partner, the much bigger, much browner one is struggling.  Although twice the size of the Harlem Shaker, Brownie’s flame seems tiny, reserved, afraid to burn strong or high.  So I pull her closer to me, right next to the keyboard, much to the dismay of Whitey, and tell her I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I’ve kept you locked in the pantry for so long, with The Ugly Ones, only to be brought out in times of emergency.  I spin her around and around yet, still, she burns quietly, calmly.  I even blow on her, gently encouraging her to rise up.   But she does not.  She seems content, happy to let her much bolder neighbor outshine her.  And I sigh.  I know what it’s like to be out-shined.  To hide inside yourself, your walls.  But not anymore.  Today is your day Brownie.  And I blow out the raging flamer behind her, put her back on the round coffee-table in the living room, where she can smoke and fume and smolder all she wants.  Her time is up for the day.  Then I push Brownie back, just a little.  Just far enough away that I don’t bump her with my arm as I type.  And there she’ll stay, even though it’s the middle of the day, keeping me company, while I finish my writing and my daily chores.  And when dinner-time comes, and darkness rolls in, I will place her Front and Center, in the middle of the dining room table, so she can show me, and everyone else, that it’s her time to shine.