The Candle

            The blackout occurred around 7 o’clock. We had just finished our takeout pizza and retreated to our individual rooms for, seemingly, the rest of the night. I cautiously stepped out to the living room, widening my eyes in hopes of spontaneously becoming nocturnal. A flicker of light appeared down the hall and out came Mother handling a candle as if it were a newborn. She appeared different. The ominous glow danced across her slightly aged face flirting with every perfection and imperfection. The flame and wick sparkled in her eye as she set the candle down on the coffee table. A sphere of light illuminated the room protecting us from the darkness.

            Down the hall, clumsy footsteps fought their way to the living room. In tripped Father and Sister. They both let out a sigh of relief and then collapsed on the couch around the candle.

“Well this sucks,” said Dad while subconsciously attempting to power on the TV.

 “I know, I was in the middle of the new gossip girl” Sister replied.

            Then I noticed my mom digging in a cabinet and coming out with a few more candles and a weirdly bound book. She lit the candles strategically around the furniture. Plopping down in the middle of the couch, between Sister and Father, she waved me to come sit down. I sat and peaked over to see what the book contained. It was a photo album. I saw a tired and weary version of my mother grasping my fathers hand tightly as they both held their newborn daughter and then their son on the next page. I was taken back to a series of birthdays and holidays with the family. Seeing members that felt long gone and familiar faces from our youth sparked our memories and the stories began. We used a candle as one would a flashlight at a campfire and took turns storytelling.

            The light-bearer chose the topic. As we made our revolutions, the light appeared to get brighter and brighter. Our memories fueled the candle. We dove deeper into each story. Its ominous glow transformed into a blinding light. Suddenly, a “pop” occurred and the flame flickered. Shortly after, the TV turned on and the lamps lit up all around the house. Sister, checking her phone, rushed into her room to watch some show. Dad’s subconscious acted up as he began flipping through the channels.

              The photo album slowly closed. I looked at Mother’s face and the sparkle was gone. Forcing a smile, she walked over and returned the weirdly bound book to the cabinet. She appeared different yet again. An accepting sadness swept over her face the way the glow from the flame did before. She protected us from the darkness, but who will protect us from the light? Asking herself this very same question, she walked over to the coffee table, calmly leaned over, and blew out the candle.