A good deed in a weary world...
“ Ssshhhhhhht.”
That’s the sound of you, striking a match.
A flash of yellow. It grows larger and brighter. You light a candle in the dark.
“There. Is that better?” you say.
There is just enough light available for you to see me when I nod.
“So. What do you want to talk about?”
The candle is between us. It is a tall white taper that we stole from church on Easter Eve. After the candlelight vigil, the other people drop them carelessly onto the little shelves that hold the hymnals. We eye them greedily until the sermon ends. Then, as the other worshippers file out of the pews and cram themselves into the aisle, inching towards the door, you and I furtively dash through the pews, stuffing the tapers into our coat pockets.
If we don’t, they will only be thrown away.
You remember doing this with me, don’t you, Reader? How we carry away as many as will fit in pockets and purse, and still more stuck up sleeves, held in my hands cupped over cuffs as we exit, hoping that the priest won’t see as we slip out into the night? But of course he never does, though he is standing at the door and we walk right past him. He is receiving congratulations on his beautifully delivered sermon, his words describing hope and transfiguration.
You ask, “Where are we, Cupcake?”
You just asked it now; I heard you think it. Not in the story where we are leaving the church, Reader. (In that story, we have managed to keep straight faces and are now scurrying down the sidewalk towards your car, gleeful and triumphant, pulling the candles from our sleeves and holding them before us like bouquets.)
Where are we, when we are sitting with the candle, afterwards. I think that’s what you meant.
I can’t tell you where we are though. Because I don’t know. The candle doesn’t throw its beam that far (so shines a good deed in a weary world). We might be in a cave, like Tom Sawyer and Becky. Or we might be camping, like a group of old friends. Or possibly we are on a picnic in a graveyard, or sitting on the steps in front of one of our houses. It's just you and me and as far as the glow surrounds us. That's as far as I can see.
For just a quick second, I have a feeling that we are on the ground in the middle of a baseball stadium. But why would that be? It must be your thought. I’m not much of a sports fan. (Although I do like the symbolism of baseball, like in Field of Dreams.)
It doesn’t matter. Where we are, or whose thinking put us there.
What matters is that it isn’t dark right now. And that we have each other to talk to in the dark. And that the candles from Easter Eve remind us that we are pilgrims, and poets, and partners in crime, and people who see opportunities where other people see trash.
See, that’s part of what I like about you.
“What did you want to talk about?” you ask again.
“Oh, nothing,” I say. “Everything.”
”I know,” you say. We just sit there for a while. And for that moment-- with the shadows on your features dancing a little as the flame bends and shimmies—a dance that obscures your visage even as it reveals it- For that moment, sitting there together, I know that although we have never met, Reader -that we are truly friends.
Thank you for that.
Easter next year is on April 16th. I guess I'll see you in church.
That’s the sound of you, striking a match.
A flash of yellow. It grows larger and brighter. You light a candle in the dark.
“There. Is that better?” you say.
There is just enough light available for you to see me when I nod.
“So. What do you want to talk about?”
The candle is between us. It is a tall white taper that we stole from church on Easter Eve. After the candlelight vigil, the other people drop them carelessly onto the little shelves that hold the hymnals. We eye them greedily until the sermon ends. Then, as the other worshippers file out of the pews and cram themselves into the aisle, inching towards the door, you and I furtively dash through the pews, stuffing the tapers into our coat pockets.
If we don’t, they will only be thrown away.
You remember doing this with me, don’t you, Reader? How we carry away as many as will fit in pockets and purse, and still more stuck up sleeves, held in my hands cupped over cuffs as we exit, hoping that the priest won’t see as we slip out into the night? But of course he never does, though he is standing at the door and we walk right past him. He is receiving congratulations on his beautifully delivered sermon, his words describing hope and transfiguration.
You ask, “Where are we, Cupcake?”
You just asked it now; I heard you think it. Not in the story where we are leaving the church, Reader. (In that story, we have managed to keep straight faces and are now scurrying down the sidewalk towards your car, gleeful and triumphant, pulling the candles from our sleeves and holding them before us like bouquets.)
Where are we, when we are sitting with the candle, afterwards. I think that’s what you meant.
I can’t tell you where we are though. Because I don’t know. The candle doesn’t throw its beam that far (so shines a good deed in a weary world). We might be in a cave, like Tom Sawyer and Becky. Or we might be camping, like a group of old friends. Or possibly we are on a picnic in a graveyard, or sitting on the steps in front of one of our houses. It's just you and me and as far as the glow surrounds us. That's as far as I can see.
For just a quick second, I have a feeling that we are on the ground in the middle of a baseball stadium. But why would that be? It must be your thought. I’m not much of a sports fan. (Although I do like the symbolism of baseball, like in Field of Dreams.)
It doesn’t matter. Where we are, or whose thinking put us there.
What matters is that it isn’t dark right now. And that we have each other to talk to in the dark. And that the candles from Easter Eve remind us that we are pilgrims, and poets, and partners in crime, and people who see opportunities where other people see trash.
See, that’s part of what I like about you.
“What did you want to talk about?” you ask again.
“Oh, nothing,” I say. “Everything.”
”I know,” you say. We just sit there for a while. And for that moment-- with the shadows on your features dancing a little as the flame bends and shimmies—a dance that obscures your visage even as it reveals it- For that moment, sitting there together, I know that although we have never met, Reader -that we are truly friends.
Thank you for that.
Easter next year is on April 16th. I guess I'll see you in church.
posted by Cupcakegrrl at Monday, October 31, 2005
3 Comments:
That was really interesting. Not plain vanilla interesting, but mint chocolate chunk interesting.
Sorry, you won't see me in church.
I'll drive the getaway car though.
I don't think I will be seeing you in church either, but I will grab some candles for the conversation. The conversation will be my church.
After I left home, the only times I went to church were xmas eve and easter, mainly to placate my mother. Now that I have young children, I have an excuse to get out of even that obligation, but that's sort of beside the point of the post, isn't it? The sentiment is a beautiful one that reminds me of early romance -- all the mystery and longing and things that remain to be said. And I used to heist the candles, too.
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